


30 Days of Beauty and the Beast: One Line, Different Character

by HathorAroha



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-08 07:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 33,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: As the title suggests, thirty one-shots for thirty days where I take a single line from the movie spoken by one character, and give it to someone else, however likely or unlikely. Characters and other tags will be added as each one shot is added day by day. One-shots' lengths vary from tiny drabbles to long ones, and I'll aim to be mostly fluffy/non-angsty. Take note, I said "mostly".





	1. The Wildest, Most Gorgeous Thing I Ever Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is wandering back to her own quarters after a night of reading when she catches Lumiere, possibly a little tipsy, admiring his reflection in a mirror. Post-curse.

Belle yawns as she wanders back down the castle hallways from the library, her book in hand, having already promised herself “next chapter and then bed” at least five times so far. It wasn’t until the clock in the library chimed midnight that she then decided she  _must_ go to bed, or Adam would wonder where she went off to. Not that he didn’t know the pull of an exciting book that kept one up all night (”one more chapter…one more chapter…”  _ad infinitum_ ), but he had things to attend to come the sunrise and books, alas, had to wait. 

Belle, meanwhile, stopped at the archway leading into another small corridor when she heard a male voice. Peering around the corner in passing curiosity, she saw Lumiere, a wine bottle in hand, preening before a mirror. 

“You are the wildest, most gorgeous thing I ever met!” Lumiere complimented his own reflection with a wink, raking a free hand through his natural hair. “Nobody deserves you.” A pause. “Except Plumette,  _mon amour.”_

“Am I catching you at a bad time?” Belle called in, eyebrows raised with a dozen questions in her eyes. 

Lumiere’s wine bottle nearly slips out of his hand as he jumps and whirls around to make eye contact with Belle. On seeing her, he grins widely, swaying on the spot, arms outstretched as if to invite her in for a hug. 

“Ah! Miss! You are still up?” 

Belle nods down at her book, “Just off to bed to finish this book.” 

He leans against the wall, raising his wine bottle in a toast before taking a swig from it. 

“Excellent book?” 

Belle grins, hugging the book to her chest like a dear friend, “I cannot put it down!” 

“Here’s a toast then, Miss, to unread–I mean un-put-down…able books!” 

Belle tilts her head, an eyebrow still quirked up. “Isn’t it time you were in bed too?” 

“Bed?” Lumiere laughs, “I could stay up all night!” 

“Where’s Plumette?” 

“Plumette?” there is confusion, and then a  _Eureka!_ moment as his face lights up with some realisation or other. “Plumette! That’s why I was coming in here!” 

“Before you got distracted by your own reflection?” 

Another loud laugh, it carries down the hallway, and Belle is sure it has woken up at least a few people sleeping behind nearby doors. He pushes himself off the wall, striding toward Belle, catching her up in a surprise hug that full squeezes the breath out of her. Arms and book imprisoned in his embrace, Belle can’t really return the hug, even though she appreciates his great show of friendly affection. When he lets go of her, she can almost hear her lungs crying in relief as they can breathe again. 

“Well then, off to see Plumette, Miss,” he almost sings, walking past her down another corridor, “Goodnight, Belle.” 

“Yes, well, goodnight then,” Belle responds, but he is already gone. She stays there for several moments, staring after the man with a bemused expression. Then, shaking her head, she moves on toward her own room to spend the rest of the night reading her newest favourite story. 


	2. Pouf Pouf!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chip finds an abandoned kitten and brings it to the prince, who helps him find a name. Post-curse. Fluffier than a planet-sized basket of kittens.

A confident knock at the door drew Adam’s attention away from the papers he was perusing at his desk. While he usually did not like to be interrupted when he was busy with work, he was generally amenable to answering the door anyway. 

“Who is it?” he called at the door. 

A little child’s voice piped up from the other side. “Chip!” 

Adam found himself caught between two decisions–on the one hand, he could dismiss Chip and tell him to come back in about half an hour. On the other hand…he  _could_ use a distraction, even though Chip could talk his ear off for the rest of the day, work or no work. 

“Prince?” Chip called from the other side again, “Can you help me name my cat?” 

_Cat? I didn’t know we had a new cat._

“Come in, Chip,” he invited, “I can spare a few minutes.” 

The door handle turned, and he heard the child straining to get the heavy door open. Adam began to get up to take pity on the child and help him open the door, but Chip managed on his own, even holding what looked like a little white kitten in one arm. The kitten wriggled restlessly in Chip’s arms, bright blue eyes staring up at the prince, opening a pink mouth in the world’s smallest “mew?” The prince couldn’t help but brighten up at Chip’s grin as he held the little kitten to his heart. Adam gestured to a spare chair sitting in a corner. 

“Bring up a chair and sit down if you like, Chip. I could use the company.” 

Chip nodded, and walked up to Adam, holding the kitten out to the prince. 

“Can you hold the kitten for me?” 

Who could say no to holding a kitten? Taking the little wriggling creature into his hands, Adam held it to his shoulder, feeling its tiny front paws land on his coat, its miniscule claws barely even scratching the material. 

“Hello there,” he murmured to the kitten as Chip began scraping the chair up to the desk. “What’s your name?” 

“It doesn’t have one yet,” Chip said as he gave one last tug on the chair so it was right by the prince’s. He climbed up, kneeling on the seat. “Mama found it outside somewhere.” 

“It was lost?” 

Chip shrugged. “Mama said it was probably orphaned. Really small for a kitten. Says it happens sometimes, that a baby kitten might be born way smaller than its brothers and sisters. And then it gets left alone without friends.” 

_I know how that feels._

Adam scratched behind the kitten’s ears with a finger, “Poor thing,” he murmured, his heart going right out to the little creature, “You’ve got a new home here. Here, I’ll give you back to your friend.” 

The kitten protested with the world’s tiniest  _mew,_ claws scrabbling uselessly to cling on to the prince’s coat. 

“I think he really likes you,” Chip observed, grinning up at Adam as he took the kitten from the prince, “He doesn’t want to part with you.” 

“You wanted me to help you give him a name,” Adam remembered, “Have you got any ideas? What about your mama?” 

Chip shrugged. “Said she wanted to let me give the kitten a name. I think she’s really busy because lunch is soon.” He hesitated. “I’m not bothering you am I?” 

“No!” Adam said at once, a bit more emphatically than he’d meant to, “Not at all.” 

“Snowball? It looks like a tiny snowball.” 

“That’s definitely a good name. But you have to be very happy with it.” 

The child scrunched up his face in a show of deep thought. 

“Snow? Cloudy? Cloud puff?” 

“Cloud puff sounds like a sweet name.” 

“Then Cloud Puff it is!”

“You decide, not me.” Adam grinned, “Just because I like a name doesn’t mean you have to pick it.” 

“It’s hard to pick a name!” Chip lamented, “Can you think of anything more?” 

It was Adam’s turn to think hard on it. Somehow, the first thing that came to his mind, out of nowhere, was what Plumette always said whenever she had done his makeup. It had stuck since he was a little child and had not changed since. 

“Pouf Pouf,” Adam blurted out, “What about that?” 

“I like that one too! But I can pick only one.”

“Who says you have to pick one, Chip? You can pick them all.” 

“You can?” 

“Guess how many middle names I have.” 

“Two?” 

“More than that.” 

“Five? Fifteen?” 

Adam laughed, “Less than fifteen, thankfully, Chip. It’s four.” 

“That’s a lot of names.” 

A few moments of silence passed as Chip cuddled the kitten, whispering something Adam couldn’t quite hear in its ear. The child pretended to listen, then nodded. 

“He likes the name Pouf Pouf,” Chip declared, “So his name is Pouf Pouf. Thanks, Prince Adam!” 

“Glad to be of help,” the prince said with full sincerity, “And you can just call me Adam, you know.” 

“Thanks, Adam,” Chip climbed off the chair onto his feet, “I’m going to tell mama now its new name.” 

“Be sure and tell Plumette too,” Adam said, “I’m sure she’ll be delighted.” 

“Will she love the kitten?” 

“I can’t think of anyone in this castle who wouldn’t,” Adam assured, “Pouf Pouf will be well loved with lots of friends here.” 

Chip nodded, waving the prince farewell before he turned and scampered back out the door, kitten cradled in his arms. The child now gone, Adam turned back to his duties, but his brain was no longer paying attention, still reeling over the little kitten that Chip had just shown to him. 

_Don’t worry, Pouf Pouf, you won’t be lonely anymore, not when you have Chip as your new friend now._


	3. I'm Talking to a Candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slumbering together, Belle is awoken initally by a bemusing sleeptalking from Prince Adam, and, thinking all is okay, returns to sleep, only to be awoken again by another of his nightmares.

Belle drifted out of the edge of a dream, arms still wound around Adam’s waist, forehead touching his warm back. She opened one eye enough so that she could see the room was still dark. The castle rang with the deep silence that spoke of the small, early hours of morning. Belle estimated it was probably around three or four in the morning, her beloved still deep in slumber, his chest rising and falling against her arms, against her own chest. He was so warm resting by her in her embrace.

_Why am I awake?_

She closed her eyes again, willing drowsiness to carry her back to sleep until the sun broke free of the horizon. Inhaling Adam’s scent, she pressed up closer to him, letting herself be lulled back—she hoped—to sleep by his regular and steady, slow breaths. She couldn’t help but press a couple tender kisses between his shoulder blades, his bare skin warm on her lips.

That’s when she heard it: a mumble, a quiet one, but nevertheless, she heard it. Her breath momentarily hitched, worried he might be having another nightmare, perhaps brought on by another awful memory that clawed its way into his slumber. Sometimes he mumbled things in his sleep, other times he would jolt awake, his whole body starting Belle from slumber beside him.

“Adam?” she murmured, turning her head so her cheek touched his back. “Are you alright?”

“Shh, Belle,” came another mumble, “I’m talking to a candle.”

“What?” she rasped, voice croaky with sleep.

“The candle. On the windowsill.”

“What about the candle, my love?”

“It’s Belle.”

“What?”

“The windowsill candelabra.”

Belle quirked an eyebrow, much bemused by this peculiar sleep-talk-conversation they were having. She decided to play along.

“You’re talking to a candle named Belle.”

“My name’s Belle.”

“Your name is my name?”

An incoherent mumble.

“What’s that, my love?”

“Windowsill.”

“Yes, about the windowsill?”

But the only response she got now was a deep silence, stretching out for long enough that Belle assumed he had fallen back into a dreamless slumber again, leaving her to reflect on this odd little “conversation”, if one could call it that. Perhaps this was just a one off, which she could tease him about come the morning.

She was only just getting comfortable, snuggling under the blankets, closing her eyes after a few minutes, when he began talking again—but this time it was far more terrified. Gone was the bemusing sleep-talk-slash-conversation from before, and now her worry for him grew in her, concerned that the theme of his dreams had turned from light to a terrifying darkness.

“I…” his voice faded away, replaced with what sounded like a little terrified moan, “No…Belle…”

She pulled her arm out from under him, wincing from the pins and needles, but she ignored the unpleasant sensation, placing her hand softly on his neck, massaging gently. Her other arm still wound around his waist, but she held on a little firmer, her legs winding with his.

“It’s just a dream, love,” she murmured, “I’m here, I love you, I’m not leaving you again.”

“Not you,” Adam gasped, his breathing quicker; Belle could feel his heart pounding under her palm when she moved a hand up against his chest. “Don’t…not my servants, don’t—”

“Adam! Wake up!” Belle’s voice rose in its firm urgency, shaking his shoulder firmly, hoping to rouse him from his nightmare or whatever it was, “It’s not real, it’s all over, I’m here.”

Her voice must have got through to him, for she felt him jerk awake, his whole body jolting against her. His breath came out in panicked pants, heart pounding against Belle’s hand as she gently kissed him on the back of his neck, hair falling over her face.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she soothed in soft tones, “You’re awake, it’s all over.”

She huddled close to him, leaning over to kiss him on his temple, feeling his hand grasp for hers, fingers threading through her own.

“It’s over, my love,” Belle murmured, “It’s over.”

“Belle…” he whispered, “Belle, Belle…”

She let him take a few minutes to calm down again, cuddling close while whispering words of comfort. Once calmer, he rolled over in bed until he was facing Belle, who clasped one of his hands in both of hers, pressed against her heart. His free hand came up from under the covers to run fingers through Belle’s hair, the latter closing her eyes at the touch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she whispered.

He let out a soft sigh, before he fell silent for a moment.

“You can tell me in the morning,” she assured, “Or not at all. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid when I’m with you, Belle.”

“You were talking in your sleep—something about the servants.”

“Oh…” his hand stilled in her hair, thumb still tracing absent-mindedly back and forth. “I…I think that was one of the worst I’ve had.”

Belle squeezed his hand tight. “It’s over now, you know it’s not real.”

“It was one I had sometimes, even as a Beast.”

_And with no one to comfort him? How horrible._

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the one where…” he took a deep, steadying breath, “The Enchantress doesn’t turn me into a Beast, but one or more of the servants are, instead.” Belle felt him shudder at the idea. “And I’m so… _helpless_ in the dream.”

“That’s awful,” she whispered, “But you’re not helpless, you know that.”

“It doesn’t matter in the dream. I try to beg her to take me instead, not my servants…but in vain. Belle, I’d…” another deep breath, released at once, gradually, “I’d rather go through the transformation’s pain ten-fold over than let _any_ of my servants go through what I did that night.”

“That’s very selfless of you,” Belle commented, sincerely, “From what you tell me, it was agony.”

“The worst pain I’ve ever known.”

“You were saying my name too.”

“You were there this time…but you…you turned away…”

Belle clung on as tight as she could to his hands, “I’m never leaving you again, you know that.”

“I know,” he gently tugged her head closer to him, so their foreheads touched, “I know.”

“But you’re here now, Adam, the dream isn’t real, the servants are probably just fine. Asleep, but fine.”

“I know they have their own troubled dreams after…after everything that had happened. I’m still amazed they don’t hate me at all for what I put them through.”

“They could _never_ hate you,” Belle insisted, “You know they love you too.”

“They have talked about nightmares from the curse before,” the prince revealed, “And Belle, I can’t help but feel guilty for it.”

Belle gave him a tender kiss. “They wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“I know…but if it weren’t for me, they wouldn’t have all their bad dreams either. I…I think I deserve these nightmares more—”

“ _No._ No, love, _no one_ deserves nightmares. But everyone deserves someone they trust to talk about them if they need to.”

“I can’t tell them.”

“Why not?” Belle’s voice is firm with questions, despite her sleepiness.

“Not when it’s my fault. How can I share my own nightmares with them when—when I’m the one who started the whole nightmare of the curse?”

“I think they would be a lot more understanding than you think they will be,” Belle insisted, “Haven’t you known them all your life?”

“I spent half my life pretending they didn’t exist,” his voice turned bitter, “thanks to my father.”

“Oh, Adam, I’m sorry…” Belle lets go of his hands and winds her arms around him, feeling his coil around her waist in turn.

“I don’t want to lose them again,” Adam confessed in a low murmur, the fear of losing those he loved trembling in his words, “I kept having all these awful dreams during the curse where I did. I would be walking through the castle, wondering why it was so quiet, only to find them all…inanimate. I’d try to wake them but to no avail. Or they’d return to human form but…” a shudder, Belle can feel it coming from his very bones, “But they’d be as lifeless as statues. No souls.”

Belle closed her eyes, feeling tears prickling behind her eyelids, her heart going out to him.

“I keep losing them in my dreams, Belle, even now.”

“You’re scared you’ll lose them one day,” Belle whispered, words choked with tears, “Is that why?”

A long silence, then, “Yes,” said so softly she could have imagined it was the sigh of the wind outside.

“After I’d told them I freed you to return to your father…I sent them away, because I didn’t want to watch them...die. Become inanimate. Belle, I think if you hadn’t returned, I would have…I would have climbed the highest tower and…I couldn’t have lived with it, seeing them…gone.”

Belle surreptitiously wiped a tear off her cheek, and from Adam’s staggered breathing, she can tell he’s holding back tears too.

“But they’re alive, _you’re_ alive. You’re free. It’s all over, you’re not losing _anyone_ again, I promise. Not me, not the servants, not anyone.”

“It’s a miracle any of us are alive, Belle.”

Belle gave him a tender kiss, a long one, one that deepened with desperation and love, feeling him hold her tighter to his own body, not wanting to let her go. For that matter, she did want to let him go either, not now, not ever. When they parted gently, reluctantly, from the kiss, she nuzzled into the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent, sighing with so much sadness and love for him.

“My darling beloved,” she whispered into his neck, “There _can_ be miracles, when you believe.”


	4. I'm Just a Traveler Seeking Shelter from the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young prince Adam can tell the castle is waiting for a new arrival, a new young boy to work down in the kitchen. But hours pass and he never arrives, except in the middle of a great rainstorm.

There was an agitation in the castle, he could feel it. Not a grim sort of agitation with the expectation of bad tidings. No, this was the agitation of a castle expecting a visitor. A very late visitor, apparently, on overhearing Cogsworth complaining to his mother, Princess Charlotte, about the latecomer’s tardiness in one of the small meeting rooms dotted about the castle. He knew it was naughty for little boys to eavesdrop on other adults’ conversations, but he couldn’t help listening in when he heard Cogsworth’s grumpy words.

“Dismiss him as soon as he steps foot in the castle!” Cogsworth counselled Adam’s mother, “Such tardiness cannot be tolerated.”

Behind them, still unseen, the boy kept listening, curiosity becoming too much for him to resist. He wondered who their missing “visitor” was, and why he was so late. His fingers cupped around the side of the door as he tip-toed a couple steps over the threshold.

“Perhaps he has lost his way,” Adam’s mother suggested, raising up on her toes as she leaned over the desk to peer outside. “We are in the hidden heart of France, far from Paris, after all, Cogsworth.”

“Surely he has a map on him?” Cogsworth asked as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Every man should have a map on him.”

“Well, Cogsworth, map or no map, let’s hope he can find his way here nonetheless. There are many paths through the forest to get to here.”

Cogsworth glanced over out the window, squinting as the weak autumn sun peeped out from behind a silver-lined cloud.

“Looks like it will rain later,” the prince heard him comment, his voice becoming softer now despite himself, “I just hope he won’t get caught in the downpour to come. Even _if_ he is being tardy.”

As if on cue, the wind outside kicked up a strong breeze, rattling the window above the desk. Both Cogsworth and the princess glanced over at it again.

“That wind isn’t going to let up at all today,” Cogsworth observed, “There’s a storm coming this afternoon, I can feel it.”

Adam’s mother smiled, straightening her shoulders, both hands still lightly touching the desk. “I’m sure he will make it here before the storm. Surely he cannot be too far away.”

Looking over her shoulder, Cogsworth finally spotted the boy, and at once, his face broke out into a smile on seeing the little prince.

“Looks like we have a little visitor with us, Madame,” he commented, gesturing to the boy to come over and join them.

“Who are you waiting for?” the boy asked as he walked to his mother, reaching his arms up to be lifted into her protective embrace.

“A new member of staff,” Cogsworth explained, pulling out a chair and taking a seat as he talked, “Going to be working down in the kitchen.”

“Where is he?” the prince asked, his little arms wound tight around his mother’s shoulders.

“Hopefully not too far away,” his mother answered with a smile, before glancing out at the window again, “I just hope that we, or Chapeau, will be the ones to greet him.”

Cogsworth gave her an assuring glance, “Don’t worry, Madame, we’ll make sure of it.”

The prince picked up on the unspoken words. “Will father yell at the man?”

The princess held her son in a tighter, assuring embrace, “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure he’s welcomed here.”

Another rattle from the window from the wind; looking outside at the sky, Adam could see huge, billowing grey clouds looming over the horizon.

“Will he be alright if it rains?”

“I’m sure the boy will be fine,” his mother said, “He’ll be here soon enough.”

Cogsworth nodded his agreement, “He’ll be fine, Adam, he’s a young man, from what I hear. Fit and healthy boy, I’m sure. How old is he? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Fifteen I think,” Adam’s mother confirmed, “Tells me he loves to entertain and tell stories to children too.”

“Would he tell me a few stories?” Adam asked.

“Perhaps if you asked him nicely after a few days once he has settled here, he may.”

“I’ve read the letters he’s sent you, Madame,” Cogsworth added, “Far too overenthusiastic for my taste, but seems to be a genuine young man all things considered.”

* * *

 

The afternoon meandered on, clouds darkening the sky in the ominous prologue of a forthcoming storm. The wind pressed small, fragile tree saplings so low to the ground Adam almost expected their supple young trunks to snap. And yet, these young trees, planted by their dedicated gardening staff, stayed resilient against the harsh autumn wind. As he played cards near the fireplace with Cogsworth, he could hear rain beating against nearby windows, drumming harder with every minute. The wind outside began to shriek with wild abandon, heralding the storm’s arrival. Cogsworth’s attention kept going to the front entranceway and then back to the card game with the boy prince, clearly looking for the new arrival.

“Will he be cold out there?” Adam asked Cogsworth, looking around as Chapeau came to join them, seating himself down in a chair with a new music book just for violins.

“He will be if he’s in that storm too long,” Cogsworth answered, putting down a card on the deck, “He’s going to catch a cold out there.”

“Don’t worry,” Chapeau spoke up from his perch, “Mrs Potts and Plumette will arrange a hot cup of tea down in the kitchen when he does come.”

Adam and the other two servants jumped as the first roll of thunder roared over the castle. Chapeau’s book slid from his fingers, but he deftly caught it in one hand, his other over his heart. Cogsworth glanced over at the door again, as did the prince. There still seemed to be no sign of their new resident of the castle.

“I hope he’s alright out there,” Chapeau commented in his characteristic quiet manner, “It’s terrible weather outside.”

“Hope he isn’t fool enough to walk under the trees,” Cogsworth muttered.

The fire crackled merrily as the prince and Cogsworth finished up their card game, Chapeau resuming his read, ignoring the continued rolls of thunder overhead. Cogsworth pretended to be greatly disappointed when the prince won the card game, but a genuine smile broke through nevertheless. Another roll of thunder overhead—the storm clearly wasn’t letting up any time soon. The boy began to worry himself—was the new arrival they were expecting going to be alright? Had he lost his way in the rain?

It wasn’t until after Mrs Potts and the princess had come to join them that there finally was a loud knock at the door.

“Is that him?” the prince asked the room at large, pointing to the door. Chapeau had already got up to greet the door, and the little boy began to stand up himself to follow the servant to front entrance.  

“Seems like it,” the prince’s mother mused, gesturing to Mrs Potts to start pouring a piping hot cup of tea. “He could use a good strong brew after being out in that dismal storm.”

Following Chapeau to the door, the prince stood next to the servant as the latter pulled open the door to peer around at whoever was on their doorstep. Adam caught a glimpse of a tall, lanky boy, probably in his mid-teens, who looked _very_ soaked, as though he had been walking through a relentless rainstorm. A few leaves were stuck in his hair, and his shoes looked very muddied. Nevertheless, despite his appearance, the new boy flashed them the warmest and cheeriest grin ever.

“Good evening,” the visitor greeted them with a deep bow, “Sorry I’m late.”

“You must be the new boy,” Chapeau guessed, stepping aside and widening the entranceway so the boy, now dripping water all over the floor, could step inside.

The new boy gave a grateful nod at Chapeau, now pulling and yanking at his sodden coat with great grimaces and strain.

“I got lost,” he explained, “The forest is a big place, and at lunchtime, the sun was so inviting I had to sit and have lunch somewhere warm.” The man laughed. “I’m afraid I fell asleep in the sun—my fifteen minute nap turned into an hour long sleep.”

“Here, let me help you with that coat,” Chapeau offered, taking pity on him.

“Ah, you’re a good sort I can see,” the newcomer complimented, allowing Chapeau to pull off his coat, stepping away as the latter shook it out, raindrops flying everywhere, the prince barely dodging the droplets. The prince’s stepping away out of the range of the rainwater seemed to catch the newcomer’s attention. At once, the youngster flashed him a big, broad grin and loped over to crouch down to the prince’s height. “Didn’t see you back there! You must be the Prince and Princess’s son?”

The boy nodded, “Prince Adam. Who’re you?”

“I’m just a traveller, seeking shelter from the storm, and a home in the castle!” the youth proclaimed as he stretched a hand out in an offer to shake Adam’s hand. The prince reached out in response, feeling his small hand clasped in the newcomer’s own. His hand was cold and wet and red from the bitter storm outside, but nevertheless, his grasp exuded warmth and sincerity, the boy feeling at once he could easily trust this newcomer to the castle.

“What’s _your_ name, then?” the prince asked again.

The newcomer bowed to the prince, or as much as he could while crouching, still dripping water everywhere, not that he seemed to care.

“Good prince, you seek my name, and soon I shall tell you! I am a traveller from Paris, who has spent an afternoon wandering many paths through an endless forest, dodging the anger of Jupiter’s thunder as the heavens’ doors opened upon my head, soaking me to the bone.  I had neither map nor horse to guide my way here, but I needed neither—wit and quick feet were all I needed, and here I am! I have found the castle! Late, to be sure, but here I am now. I have fought fire and ice to find my way to a new home at long last!”

The prince couldn’t help but giggle in shy delight, watching how the stranger’s eyes sparkled and his hands gestured with high animation as he wove this speech full of how he valiantly battled nature to find the castle at last.

“Well! Prince Adam, you desired to know my name, and so I shall reveal it: the name’s Lumiere. And I intend to bring a lot of that into everyone’s lives for as long as I am here.” Lumiere stood up again, straightening to his full height, “Now, I believe I can hear a warm fireplace crackling somewhere. Care to lead me to where I can finally get dry and warm again?”

The prince glanced over at Chapeau, thinking he would be the one to lead the way, but the servant nodded and gestured at the boy, hinting he could do the honours. The prince offered a shy hand to Lumiere, who gripped it again gently in his own.

“This way,” the prince directed, pointing toward the chairs and fireplace near the entrance.

“Lead this weary traveller there, then, good prince,” Lumiere said with a grand flourish of his other arm. “I do not know my way around the castle yet, I fear!”

The boy couldn’t help but grin, finding Lumiere’s cheery demeanour too infectious and uplifting to ignore. Already, he felt he liked this new member of staff a lot, and how could one not, with all his joy and enthusiasm that even now seemed to brighten the castle just from his very presence.

“The fireplace is this way.”


	5. A Beautiful Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is given a delightful surprise by Prince Adam one evening. (This was going to be day 6/30 but as I guillotined (after all, Miss, this is France) the previous 5th day prompt, this will replace it.) Quick little drabble to try to catch up, and have some good Belle and Adam fluffiness.

Belle wasn’t sure why the servants were being so mysterious this afternoon, shooing her out of the kitchen when she came down to join her beloved whom had joined the staff down there. 

“Dearie, you’ll understand tonight,” Mrs Potts assured Belle at the door, bestowing a firm, assuring hug on the young woman. “You’ll see.” 

Belle began to try to look over her shoulder, but the housekeeper was very quick on the uptake, quickly shaking her head as she closed the door. 

“It’s something you’ll have to wonder about,” Mrs Potts insisted, “I would tell you, but the prince has sworn us to secrecy.” 

Belle raised an eyebrow, “Oh he has, has he? And why would that be?” 

“You’ll find out tonight, love. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back in the kitchen and keep helping out with the dinner.” 

“Are you sure you won’t need any help?” 

“No,” the housekeeper shook her head, her smile as mysterious as before, “I would tell you if I could, Belle, I assure you. Ah, Plumette, come to help us too?” 

Belle turned to see Plumette coming down the stairs, her smile growing even warmer on seeing her. 

“Look, a beautiful girl!” Plumette praised, arms outstretched to Belle as she complimented her. 

Skipping down the last few stairs, Plumette swept Belle up into an embrace, cupping her face as she gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Behind them, Mrs Potts disappeared back into the kitchen, the door shutting again. 

“You  _are_  beautiful, mademoiselle,” Plumette said, squeezing Belle’s hands, “And I’m looking forward to seeing your smile this evening when you see the surprise.”

“Why?” Belle asked. “What’s so special tonight?” 

“If I told you, you would guess it.” 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“No, no, it isn’t.” 

“Have I done something worth celebrating?” 

“In a manner of speaking, yes, you have, my lady.” 

“Oh?” 

She giggled, apparently taking great delight in Belle’s clear frustration in not getting the answer she wanted. 

“It will be worth it, I promise, mademoiselle!” Plumette cupped Belle’s face in her hands and gave her a quick parting kiss on the cheek before flitting through the door into the kitchen, letting it close behind her, leaving Belle alone. 

“I guess I’ll  _have_ to wait…” 

* * *

For most of the remainder of the afternoon, Belle helped out some of the gardeners outside in the royal grounds. One of her gardening compatriots, a red-haired middle-aged woman kept chattering away, talking to her about how she always loved tending to the roses when the prince had been a small child. Belle could tell from her accent she was British–Scottish, as it turned out, when the brunette enquired of her homeland. 

“It is cold and drizzly a lot of the time,” the gardener described her homeland, “but my childhood memories tell me only of bright days in the sun.” 

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Belle said with a longing sigh, “I’ve always longed for adventure in the great wide somewhere.” 

“Belle! Mademoiselle!” 

At the cry of her name, Belle straightened up, stretching her back a little as she spotted Plumette running in her direction. 

“Mademoiselle!” Plumette reached Belle, a little out of breath from the exertion of running from wherever she had been. “You must come quick–it is nearly ready!  _Usually_ we do not have a dessert before dinner, but this is special. The prince awaits you.” 

Belle nodded to the gardener, handing back the tool she had been using. “Thank you for letting me help you for the afternoon, it has been a pleasure.” 

The woman grinned, showing several missing teeth, pushing back some wayward strands of red hair. 

“Not a problem my dear,” she said, “You run along now!” 

* * *

Belle thought she was starting to get a little suspicion about what exactly it was that was so secretive, one the prince wanted to surprise her with. She glanced at Plumette, wanting so much to tell her what her guess was, but chose not to, knowing the woman would decline to divulge a confirming answer. But she could tell from the way her eyes shone, and how her smile never faded, strong as summer sunshine, that whatever it was, it was something amazing. 

“I think I have an inkling what it may be,” Belle said. 

But Plumette held a finger to her lips in a silent bid for her to speak no more. 

“Don’t tell me, because I’m not going to confirm it either way, mademoiselle. Ah, this way!” 

Plumette linked her arm through Belle’s, tugging her toward another part of the garden–the rose garden so dear to the prince’s heart, Belle realised, as she found herself led in that direction. Plumette was nearly trembling with her own excitement, her hand gripping Belle’s wrist as she guided her to where the prince waited. 

“Look! There he is!”

Belle followed Plumette’s gaze to see Adam rising from the bench under the arch of roses that winded around wooden frames. Beside him was a couple plates with very elegant cupcakes, with something glinting off the sunlight on one of the plates. 

“Belle!” Adam called out, and from here, Belle could see how nervous he appeared. “Wait there!” 

Plumette’s arm stayed wound around Belle’s, still clutching on with excitement. 

“Can’t wait to see your face!” Plumette whispered with a grin that seemed to brighten her whole countenance, “Oh Belle!”

Plumette’s excitement was contagious, Belle’s stomach fluttering with the anticipation of it all even as a very apprehensive-looking Adam approached her, one of the plates in hand. When she saw what exactly the sun had been glinting off of, she gave a cry of surprise, clapping a hand over her mouth, heart thundering in her chest. By the time he stood just a few feet away from her, the word was already on her lips. She couldn’t take her eyes off the plate with the cupcake and the ring lying alongside it as he bowed to her, the dessert and ring outstretched to her. When Adam straightened up again, gazing into her eyes, she at once said her answer. 

“Yes,” she managed, past a constricted throat and vision shimmering with unspeakable happiness, “Yes, I will marry you!” 

Adam’s eyes looked more bright than usual as he grinned down at her, happiness and joy radiating from him. His empty hand shook as he carefully picked up the ring between finger and thumb, the jewel sparkling in the evening sunlight. Plumette’s hand tightened on hers, and, looking over at her, Belle could see her eyes were glistening too, and she squeezed her hand before letting go to stretch it out to the prince. Adam cupped her fingers in his, thumb brushing over them as he slid the engagement ring on a finger, before slowly raising her hand to bestow a tender, grateful kiss. 

Belle burst into tears of happiness, her smile radiant as the sun as she leaned in to give him a kiss on the lips. 

“Of course I will marry you,” she murmured, leaning her forehead against his, “I will never leave you as long as my life is long.”

 

 


	6. What Say We Run Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plumette and Lumiere dance away the meandering years of the curse together. One night, Plumette wonders what it would be to just run away together, from the castle, forever, away from all reminders of the curse. Pre-movie drabble.

Hour after hour, day after day, he and Plumette would dance to Cadenza’s mournful melodies. Gentle, slow waltzes across the dance floor of the dusty, abandoned ballroom, Lumiere’s eyes never wavering from Plumette’s face. Hour after hour, they would sway without a word to the tunes of a harpsichord who had pined for his sweetheart ever since the night of the terrible curse. If there was one positive thing to say about the curse, it was that they could never tire—for without human forms that became weary and exhausted, in their candelabra and feather duster forms, they could dance in each other’s arms from the last gasp of dusk to the first mewl of dawn. Cadenza’s music would fade away with the small hours of morning, falling asleep to his own melodies, but Plumette and Lumiere would take no heed of this, still twirling and spinning around their dances into the light of morning.

It was a rare moment when either would say anything to give the other pause, slowing down to consider words spoken from their beloved’s lips, words falling from their heart.

“What do you say we run away?”

Lumiere halted mid-step at Plumette’s words, taken completely by surprise.

“Plumette?”

They no longer moved to Cadenza’s music, which kept on playing even though they were no longer dancing, now a feather-duster and candelabra in each other’s hold, standing still in the middle of the ballroom floor.

“We’ve been under this curse for so long,” Plumette whispered, one wing winding around Lumiere’s shoulder as he held her as close as he could without fear of burning her with his candles.

“I know, darling, but we musn’t give up.”

She sighed, her head dropping low as if in sadness. “I want to, some days.”

Lumiere held her close, aching so much to comfort her properly, to caress her face, to kiss away her sadness, it was nearly unbearable, a pain that weighed heavily in his heart.

“I wish I had your unfailing hope, Lumiere. How do you do it?”

“Even the strongest flame flutters in the breeze, but I keep hope alight.”

“But how?”

“All I have to do is be with you, _mon amour_.”

Plumette sighed, leaning against her love. “Sometimes I wish we could just…run away. Perhaps to Paris. Or to Vienna.”

“Or perhaps Venice or Rome?” Cadenza suggested, “You are welcome to Italy any time.”

“Ah, Italy,” Lumiere said, visions of ancient Roman temples and romantic voyages down rivers dancing in his imagination, “The country where romance blossoms.”

“And music, my friend, do not forget our glorious operas!”

“We shall sail the seven seas and visit the grandness that is Egypt,” Lumiere closed his eyes, dreams of travelling blooming in his imagination, “We would cruise down the Nile together, just you and I, sipping wine and dancing the night away under the stars.”

Another dreamy sigh from his love, and Lumiere was sure he could almost hear a smile within.

“We _can_ run away together, _mon cher,_ when we close our eyes as we dance to the music of love. Come, let us dance once again. Cadenza?”

Cadenza did not leap right into a full-bodied piece, but, rather, one with notes that peeped in and out like shy birds venturing into a garden for the first time. Lumiere led Plumette into a slow dance, small steps, turning on the spot, golden feet expertly avoiding stepping on Plumette’s long feathers. Her eyes slipped closed, letting Lumiere lead her over the floor, humming along to the melody as they sunk into each other’s arms, or what passed for such humanness now.

It was a while before Plumette said anything again.

“We can’t just abandon him can we?” she asked. “I mean the Master…the prince.”

“No, we cannot, my darling.”

“Even if we could?”

Lumiere shook his head, “Plumette, he needs us, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it.”

“And I know I would feel terrible for abandoning him,” Plumette admitted, “He would not believe us if we said so, but we care about him too.”

“Let us still run away, love, but in our hearts.”

And, closing their eyes to visions of Venice and Rome, that’s just what they did, dancing slowly in circles to Cadenza’s mournful harmonies.  


	7. It's Time to Sparkle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Adam is invited by an old childhood friend to dance with her, and in the process, an old forgotten childhood memory is unveiled from the depths of forgotten time.

An unusually warm night filled with stars and a full moon beckons Adam to go outside and enjoy, perhaps, a little quiet wine as he listens to crickets chirping in the gardens. Belle has retreated elsewhere to sit with her papa and Chip, both helping the latter to learn how to draw. Mrs Potts, he knew, would soon pop her head into whichever room they were in, to encourage Chip to come to bed now, for the hour is late and bedtime is well past.

Stepping outside, Adam closes his eyes, standing still as he inhales the aroma of the bouquet of flowers in the garden. When he breathes as deep as he can, the scent of two intertwining perfumes linger in his nose. Not a perfume from the beloved gardens, but from a couple who no doubt were dancing nearby in the full moonlight.

_They’ll dance till the moon sets, no doubt._

Opening his eyes slowly, he tilts his head back to gaze upon the Milky Way—he can recognise a few constellations from his childhood. Plumette had shown him their shapes and hiding spots, Cogsworth had regaled their histories, and Lumiere came up with stories of his own to amuse the little boy.

_Those were happy times._

He continues his night-time stroll, letting his feet meander where they may, past beautiful statues of marble and fountains spraying moonlight-kissed water. He spots what looks like a little bird flitting between the lighted lanterns, chirping as it darts and bounces with seeming abandon, as though it too was happy to see such a full moon sitting against the backdrop of stars. The crickets do not tire of their music, they never falter in their singing, an orchestra and choir praising the warm night.

The prince realises that his meandering stroll has carried him to a mostly empty part of the courtyard where there is no-one there but for a familiar couple dancing arm in arm. She is light as a feather, her dress swirling about her legs as her gold-coated partner twirls her around before pulling her back into an intimate hold. The prince moves into the firelight of the lanterns, unable to help a warm, glowing feeling deep in him seeing how devoted Plumette and Lumiere were, even despite all the years that had passed, and all the ups and downs of living memory. It is a devotion he thought he’d never know, not until Belle came along and he understood at last the nature of romantic love.

It is Plumette who notices him first, stopping the dance to gesture to the prince to come and join them, Lumiere gesticulating even more enthusiastically. It isn’t hard to convince the prince—he has spent too long avoiding and ignoring the servants, and he is determined to try to make up for that lost time. He would never get back those lost years, he knew, but he would be damned if he didn’t spend the rest of his life trying to anyway.

“Good evening, Adam!” Plumette greets him with a hug, followed shortly by Lumiere. “Do you wish to dance with me?”

“Me?”

Plumette offers an earnest nod with a broad, genuine grin.

The prince glances over at Lumiere, “I—I don’t know.”

But Lumiere is clearly agreeing with Plumette, judging by how he nods in encouragement, clapping a hand on the prince’s back.

“I let only the most deserving people dance with my beloved.”

“But I’m—I—”

“And _you_ are one of those people. I wouldn’t let just anyone dance with my sweetheart, would I, _mon amour_?”

Plumette’s eyes and cheeks are bright with the exertion of dance on such a warm night; nevertheless, she stretches out her hands to the prince, palms up, in an invitation to dance.

“Care to dance? It has been a while.”

_When have I danced with Plumette?_

Try as he might, the prince cannot readily recall the last time he’s danced with her, but nevertheless, he, with Lumiere’s encouragement, stretches out his hands and accepts the dance. His breath catches in surprise as she pulls him straight into a dance, seemingly not at the beginning, but somewhere in the middle. He narrowly avoids trodding on her toes before he recognises familiar steps and rhythms of the dance she has swung him into, and it isn’t long before he is just as confident in his own steps, despite his prior apprehension.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it, my prince?” Lumiere asks.

Adam is surprised by how quickly he has relaxed into the fleet-footed dance with Plumette. He and Plumette swing past Lumiere long enough that Adam gives him a quick nod, acknowledging the man had been right after all. The lanterns flicker and glow with warm firelight as the dance continues, sweeping across polished tiles, Plumette never seeming to tire at all, the corners of her mouth and eyes crinkling with her happiness.

“You are a lot taller and older than you were the last time I danced with you,” she comments after some time, catching the prince off-guard.

“What?”

The dance slows down a little as Plumette inclines her head, “You don’t remember?”

“What should I remember?”

It is Lumiere who answers from where he stands apart from them. “When you were six and had asked Plumette to show you how to dance. Don’t you remember?”

Adam cannot help a wince, “Father made sure I forgot as much as possible of…happier times.”

“Well!” Lumiere claps his hands twice; the sound seems to spark in Adam’s ears like acoustic fireworks. “Then we need to help you remember, isn’t that right, _amour_?”

Plumette nods in agreement with Lumiere.

“ _Mon prince_! You always adored how Plumette and I tirelessly danced away the hours anywhere we could in the castle! We danced in the kitchen, in the bedrooms, in the ballrooms, on the stairs, even on the highest towers and turrets of the palace!”

“And you still do to this day,” Adam points out as he and Plumette’s dancing drifts near Lumiere again.

Plumette and Lumiere laugh in good natured agreement.

“You’re right, we do,” Plumette admits with another little giggle. “Even on the stairs!”

“At least Belle and I choose safer places.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Lumiere quips, before continuing on, “We were dancing in the ballroom then, weren’t we, Plumette? Just dancing to the tune of silence when a little prince shows up.” A dramatic flourish of an arm as though he were a character onstage inviting another actor on. “Enters, through a door, from stage right, the boy prince, Prince Adam!”

“ _Is_ there a stage right in ballrooms, Lumiere?”

“Of course there is! Like I was saying, enter stage right the prince, who watches as we finish a dance to rest. Plumette has no chance to sit—didn’t you, my love?—before the prince walks to her, tugs on her arm, and asks her to show him how to dance.”

“I expect she said no,” Adam says.

“Of course I said yes!”

“You really think she could say no to a child, _mon ami_? Naturally, the angel—that is to say, Plumette—in the ballroom who has sought rest from dancing with her beloved says yes.” Lumiere spreads his arm wide as he regales the story, “She takes his hands in hers and shows him a few steps. Her feet are trodden a few times, but Plumette does not mind. Now, if it were _me_ on the other hand—”

“You’re heavier than a child, Lumiere!” Plumette protests without missing a step as she dances, still, with the prince.

“—I tread toes _lightly._ With my _passion_.”

“He doesn’t,” Plumette whispers to Adam, who fights to hold back a grin.

“It is then that Plumette’s beloved strides to the prince to praise his fast learning, and to give him a few tips. Shoulders straight, look confident, and thank her gracefully at the end.” Lumiere demonstrates with a deep bow. “He curtseys, however, pretending to forget to bow. He knew full well the man bowed as the lady curtseys. He still curtseys.”

“Why?”

“Why not? She is unfazed by this, and laughs with the delight of it all.”

A memory of Plumette’s laugh wafts back to him on the warm night air, curling around his heart with wisps of forgotten images. He sees Plumette, so much taller than him—how were adults so _tall_ —taking his six-year-old hands in hers. The warmth of her fingers, the way her grasp is strong and confident, guiding him naturally through the steps of the dance. He remembers Lumiere’s hands on his shoulders, gently straightening them out, reminding him to keep his back tall and shoulders strong. Look tall! Look confident! Appear the part of a dashing hero dancing with his lady at the happy conclusion of a tale!

Adam jolts himself out of the memory when he realises Plumette is staring at him with a smile parting her lips.

“I can see it returning to your heart,” Plumette says, “I see it in your eyes.”

 _I_ do _remember! How did I forget? How_ could _I forget?_

Now the memory of that evening of his first dance “lesson” has returned with fullness in its recollection. Even snippets of conversation return, and he remembers what Lumiere had told him as he corrected his posture.

“Stand up straight,” Adam recalls, the words out of his mouth before he realises it, “It’s time to sparkle.”

“You remember!” Lumiere exalts as he goes to take a seat on the steps, “See?”  

Adam wonders how many other memories he had pushed away, assumed forgotten forever, once his mother died and his father began twisting him into a cruel man? How many happy memories had he pushed away for so long until they were forgotten in the darkness?

“Adam?”

“Huh?”

Plumette is looking at him askance, concern in her expression.

“Everything alright?”

He shakes himself out of it.

“Everything’s fine. I think I’m…getting tired.”

“Enough dancing for you for now?”

He twirls Plumette one more time before the dance is concluded with a bow on his part and a curtsey on hers. Both are breathless with the exertion, but happiness shines from them all the same.

“Thank you for dancing with me, Adam, it’s been a long time!”

Adam cannot help the warmth blooming in his heart, the remembrance of dancing with a close friend—he had always been so close to Plumette as a little child, following her around just as he’d had with Lumiere.

“The pleasure was mine, Plumette. Thank you for helping me remember.”


	8. You must be the Talking Teacup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chip apologises to Maurice for having scared him that night when he’d greeted him when the latter came to the castle seeking shelter from the storm. I tried to write this like I was writing a children’s story, as a way to stretch my writing skills a bit in a different way.

Chip fought his way through the crowd of very tall, very chatty, very excited adults. He had seen the man who he had scared that night by moving when he wasn’t supposed to when he was a teacup. His mum had been right–moving _did_ frighten the poor man, and he wanted to say how sorry he was. He hadn’t meant to make him run away in fright. He had just wanted to say hello. 

Peeping around and between grown ups, he finally spotted the bespectacled man talking with Belle. He remembered that the man was also Belle’s father, the one the prince had imprisoned while still a Beast. He liked Belle very much, she was really nice, kind, and pretty. When she had been staying at the castle–Lumiere had always told him she was a guest, not a prisoner–he had asked her lots of questions about her father. Was he nice? (Absolutely!) What does he like to do? (Make pretty music boxes that played sweet lullabies.) What else, he had wanted to know. (He draws lots of pictures.) Was he always frightened easily? (Anyone would be scared if a teacup started talking to them!) 

Having fought his way through the forest of legs and waving arms, he finally reached Belle and her father. They both stopped chatting and looked over at him with warm smiles. Belle waved “hello” to him again, and her father gave him a nod of greeting. 

“Hello!” Chip said. 

“Hello there,” Belle’s father responded, “And who might you be?” 

The little boy pointed proudly at his own chest. “Chip! I said hello to you the night you were here. Remember that?” 

A light of recognition brightened Maurice’s eyes. But instead of being scared, he crouched down and reached a hand out for a handshake. 

“You must be the talking teacup!” he said with a little laugh.  "I’m Maurice, Belle’s father, as you may have guessed. I must apologise for having run off like that that night.” 

“That’s alright! I was a talking teacup, and Belle told me people don’t meet many talking teacups.” 

Both Maurice and Belle laughed. 

“That’s very true,” Maurice agreed. 

“But I’m a boy now, so you don’t need to be scared of me!” 

“Don’t worry, Chip, you’re the least scary boy I’ve had the pleasure to meet.” 

“Belle tells me you like painting. Do you paint people?” 

Maurice smiled broadly, “You’re asking if I can paint your portrait, am I right?” 

“How did you know?” 

“Adults are very good at guessing, Chip.” 

“So you’ll paint my picture for me of me? Soon?” 

“Of course, my boy.”

Chip grinned, and with a quick “thank you!” ran off to tell his mum the exciting news: he was going to have his picture painted by Belle’s father! 


	9. Forever Can Spare a Minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She holds on as long as she can, stealing finite final moments of life from Death’s own hands.

Everyone knew her time was running out, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. She lay deathly white and still in the sick bed, candles lit to bring a little light to fight against the gloom of creeping death. The boy prince never left her side, clinging on to her hands resting on top of the coverlet. Her voice was so weak now she could not speak above a whisper, and when she did, it was not more than a few words. Whenever one of the servants came in to gently urge the boy to come and eat his meal, or go to bed as the hour grew late, she would encourage him to go. He needed to eat, he needed to sleep. She would hold on best she can until her son returned. She would be there in the morning—and she knew there were not many mornings left. Perhaps a week’s worth if she were fortunate, but she knew deep down there were far fewer mornings in her life left.

When her last evening fell upon her, even she knew she would not live even an hour more. The candles around her bed were so unnaturally still now, as though they too knew she was dying. The black curtains were drawn over the windows, shooing away the full moon outside, covering the eyes of the stars trying to peep in to bid her farewell one more time. She could hear her own breath rattling in her lungs as she fought to hold on just a little longer. Her son surely had finished his meal by now, surely soon she would hear his frantic footsteps running down the hall to her room. Soon the door would creak open, the boy peeping his head in, before rushing to his mother’s side. Soon she would be able to say her final goodbye, give him some last encouraging words. But oh Lord in His Heaven! There were so many things she wanted to say to him now, so much it threatened to overwhelm her already frail heart. How proud she was of how he had flourished under her nurture, how he was going to grow up to be such a kind prince, and please, oh Lord, let him stay strong even under his father’s rule! She knew her servants well, she knew they would look after him. They wouldn’t abandon him, they _loved_ him too much to do that.

And still the hall was silent. Still the clock on the mantelpiece ticked on, the hands slowly moving around the ornate face. Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she let them close, hands still resting over her heart. She could hear her heart beating its final fragile moments, before it would be still for all time. And still she tried to fight the inevitable, tried to steal one more moment of life. And still she listened for his running footsteps, still she prayed he would return, and when he did, she would say “goodbye” in her heart, her voice already gone for good. She wanted to feel his hands grasping hers, to know he would be strong, for her sake, for his sake.

She didn’t hear the desperate footsteps running back to her room, nor did she hear him push the door open, for the last stolen moment of life had gone forever. Gone now to God, she didn’t feel his hands on hers, nor hear his voice begging for her to wake up, please, don’t leave him forever. She didn’t hear his last words to her, pleading for her to wake up so he could say goodbye (no, not goodbye. To say please stay. He wants her to stay.) He doesn’t hear him whisper to her, what would be his last words in her presence, even though she had now passed away.

“Forever can spare a minute.”

His father wrenches him away from her forever.


	10. What is Dinner without a little Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy prince's father is in one of his moods, his temper overflowing with more ease than usual, and Adam pleads in his heart that his father never makes him hurt the servants he once loved. Still loves, even if they have turned away from him since his mother's death. 
> 
> (Also, since I wrote those so late in the day than I usually do, I used two lines for two different characters.)

The Master was in one of his “moods” today, grumbling and complaining about every little thing. He snapped at Chapeau to shine the dishes all over again because he found one tiny spot on the handle of a cup at breakfast. He complained at Mrs Potts for his tea not being hot enough, even though it had finished boiling on the stove only a couple minutes ago. This answer did not satisfy him at all, seeing him stalk off in the other direction muttering about how women never listened to him and did what _he_ wanted.

Seeing this morning that he was having one of “those” days, Adam tried to skirt his father as much as he could, choosing to stay in the library, pretending to study, when really he threw himself into his favourite books as much as he could. He wished he didn’t feel so guilty about trying to disappear into one of his most cherished reads, one that was gifted by his own mother, one of his very first books without pictures, all words, leaving the visuals up to his imagination. He dove into his own imagination, a daydream that lasted as long as the story. He only wished he could have leaped into the world of the story, to escape his father forever, to run away from this place and be free of his domineering presence.

Alas, the story inevitably came to an end, and Adam reluctantly came back into the real world, only to find his father standing over him, arms folded, glowering down at him. He reached a hand out for the book, fingers beckoning for it. The prince knew he had no choice but to hand it over, only for his father to wrench it out of his fingers and hurl it over the boy’s head.

“You’ve been sitting in here _all day,_ reading silly little stories?” his father demanded, “Dinner is almost ready!”

“Dinner?”

“You know, what you eat in the evening, boy. You should have been ready long ago!”

“No one came in and told—”

“I sent you at least two of the servants!”

Adam couldn’t recall seeing any of the servants approach him. Surely they would have let him know he was wanted for dinner, or to get ready? Maybe he _had_ been so into the story that he didn’t even notice anyone else come in or speak to him.

“I didn’t see anyone.”

 “Because you were reading silly little stories that do your head no good.”

Adam stayed silent—something that seemed to irritate his father even more.

“Did you hear me, boy?! Those stories are doing your head no good! You will become soft like your mother!”

“Yes, father,” Adam said, trying to curb off another rant.

“There are better books you could read! I pride myself on being able to read _Greek,_ son, how many languages can you read? One?”

“One.”

“Not good enough. I told your tutor he needs to learn you some proper Greek and Latin. Has he not done this?”

“A little.”

“A _little?”_ His father snorted in disgust, “They’re not _hard_ languages to learn, boy! I have given you the finest Latin and Greek tutor in France out of the goodness of my heart, and you still can’t read fluent in those languages? Pathetic.”

“I’ll try harder.”

“What did you say?”

“I’ll try harder,” Adam said, louder, this time.

“Why do you just stand there while dinner is cooling on the table?” his father suddenly snapped. “Get to the dinner table now!”

“Yes, Father.”

* * *

 

He had hurried as fast as he could to put on his best dinner clothes, and even this seemed to annoy his father, who scowled as the boy seated himself at his place at the table.

“You took exactly two minutes to get ready! I timed it myself!”

“I was as quick as possible.”

“Not quick enough!”

“I’m sorry.”

His father grumbled incoherently, gesturing sharply at the boy to stay silent and start on his dinner. Chapeau set down another wine glass in front of the older prince, who snapped at him not to set it down so hard next time.

“You’ll spot the tablecloth, servant!”

Chapeau’s lips tightened, jaw clenching so tight that the boy could see the tense muscles from here. Adam didn’t speak, keeping his eyes on the plate, knife and fork working at his dinner.

“Look at this spoon!” the Master held up said utensil, brandishing it in Chapeau’s direction, “Look at this disgusting spot of last night’s pudding still clinging to it! You’re fortunate I don’t dismiss you on the spot as another king less forgiving than I might!” He threw it down at Chapeau’s feet.

The prince saw Chapeau’s hand clench into a fist so tight that his knuckles went stark white. Next to him, Cogsworth gave the man a sharp nudge with his elbow, as if to warn him not to do anything to set off the prince’s already shaky mood.

“Well?” Adam’s father slammed an impatient hand on the table, “You eating with us?”

Chapeau gave the man a cold glare. “I’d starve before I ate with you.”

It seemed to Adam the entire castle went dead silent at this proclamation. A vein popped out on the Master’s temple, hands clenching tight on his wine glass, so tight Adam thought it would break just from the sheer grip his father had on it.

“What did you say to me?”

“I’d starve before I eat at the same table as you, Master.”

The wine glass broke in the older prince’s hand as he slammed it down on the table, spilling red wine onto the table cloth, Adam flinching at the violence of it. His heart hammered, begging his father not to hit Chapeau in his fury. He _hated_ it whenever he hurt one of the servants. He would rather his father hit him instead—then at least the servants would not be hurt, would not be in pain.

“FINE!” his father roared at Chapeau, standing up to get in his face. The man did not waver an inch, solid as a coat hanger. “Then go ahead and eat alone in the kitchens! Get out of my sight! GET OUT!”

Chapeau ran, leaving behind the Master shaking with absolute fury, and the other servants standing still in various states of shock. Cogsworth shook his head, mumbling something to himself as he distracted himself with a watch. Was it Adam’s imagination, or did his hand shake a little? But then his hand steadied, and the boy thought he might have imagined that little tremor of fear or concern. Lumiere reached back and took Plumette’s hand, squeezing it tightly, briefly, before hurrying on with his own duties lest he was next to receive the Master’s hot temper—he was always too energetic, too sing-song-y, too _foolish_ in love with Plumette.

Another few minutes of shaken silence passed before Lumiere spoke up with what looked to Adam a forced smile.

“Perhaps a little music to soothe the Master?”

Adam saw Cogsworth turn his head sharply to mouth something at Lumiere—something that looked like “ _no, you fool!_ ” Mrs Potts took a sharp intake of breath, eyes flicking from the footman to the Master and back. Adam ducked his head down, pretending to be interested in the last scraps of his meal as his father slammed a fist on the table, clattering the cutlery and glasses.

“Did I _ask_ you to speak to me, fool?!”

“Well, technically, no—”

“Then shut up! Shut _up!_ What is dinner without a little music, boy?! _Peaceful!”_ Adam flinched as his father grabbed his already broken wine glass, as if to threaten to hurl it in Lumiere’s direction. “One more word and I’ll _fire you_.”

“Yes, Master,” Lumiere said quickly in an attempt to pacify the prince.

“I _said_ not one more word! Are you _deaf_?”

Adam’s fork slid out of his trembling fingers, clattering to his plate, and he hurriedly hid his hands under the table so his father wouldn’t see them shaking. His breathing came in short and shallow, terrified that his father would harm one of his favourite servants, even if they barely spoke anymore.

_Don’t hurt him. Don’t fire him. Don’t make him go._

“Shut up, fool, and let me eat in peace without your tomfoolery!” A pause, tension in the air, expecting an explosion. Then, his anger finally snapping, his father hurled the wine glass at Lumiere so it fell at the footman’s feet, shattering on impact. Plumette gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Well?! Why are you just standing there?! Clean that up, now!”

“Yes, Master,” Lumiere said, at once disappearing with Plumette out of the room.

Now his father sat back down in his seat with a wordless growl.

“Boy!”

Adam jerked upright as his father leaned forward to snap his fingers in front of him. He tried to straighten up, pretended he wasn’t upset by what had just happened.

“Yes, Father?”

“See how soft our servants have become?” he ranted. “This wouldn’t have happened were it not for your mother! Let tonight be a lesson in how a real prince would treat them.”

He tried not to gulp.

_I don’t want to hurt them. What if father makes me hurt them? I don’t want to._

“Well? You deaf too? Or have you become dumb as well?”

“No, Father.”

His father gave a great sigh of annoyance and irritation.

“You’ve finished your meal already, boy. You eat too fast.”

“Yes, Father.”

“It is the French way to eat slow, not eat everything like a thin, starving dog on the street. That is peasant behaviour.”

“I understand.”

“Learn to eat slower next time, and _not spill food on your clothes_ like a little baby! Now go and clean up! Go!”

“I hear you.”

With that, the boy scraped back his seat and walked as calmly as he could from the room, resisting the great urge simply to run out of there, back to his own chambers, one of the few sanctuaries in the castle. If he showed any signs of rushing, of being in some hurry, he knew his father would yell at him again. He had enough of the yelling tonight. And his father had done a lot of that at him this evening, and his ears still rang with his loud voice.

As Adam traversed the castle back to his room, he fought to try and calm his shallow breathing, trying to tell himself he was lucky tonight he hadn’t gotten a slap across the face or a terrible beating.

_Maybe I’m getting better. Maybe I’m improving in his eyes if he’s not hitting me. I hope so. I want him to love me, to be proud of me._

Maybe one day he would be.

 _I’m trying, father,_ he pleaded as he arrived in the West Wing where his own chambers resided, _Can’t you see I’m trying. I want you to be proud of me. Just please don’t yell at my servants. Don’t make me do anything I don’t want to do to them. I don’t want to hurt Chapeau or Mrs Potts or Lumiere or Cogsworth. Don’t make me do it._

They might have turned on him a long time ago, not raising a finger to protect or defend him from his father, but Adam knew he could never bring himself to hurt them. If his father threatened to beat him for not “punishing” them properly, then so be it. As long as they weren’t getting hurt, as long as they were safe.

_I want them to stay here, please, father, don’t make them go away…_


	11. The Honour was Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One joyful evening as Belle and Adam and the castle have a fun dance as Garderobe and Cadenza play, Lumiere asks Belle for the honour of a dance between friends.

The ballroom was a throng of people dancing and twirling, glamour and music combining. Up on the stage, Garderobe sung her heart out, her passion for the song making Belle’s heart swell with the sheer magnificence of it. Cadenza didn’t so much sit at the harpsichord as he swayed and rocked to his music’s passionate melodies and harmonies. The other musicians on the stage didn’t seem _quite_ as passionate outwardly, but nevertheless, their fingers flew over harp strings and curled lightly around the bowstrings of polished violins.

Belle couldn’t help but stare at how gracefully Plumette and Lumiere danced in each other’s arms, never taking their eyes off each other, their steps flawless and always in tandem. Plumette caught Belle staring at one point and gave her a small wink and a broad smile, the warmth of such genuine happiness washing over her at once. Belle couldn’t help but marvel at how Plumette’s dress swished around her legs as she twirled and danced in Lumiere’s arms. The gold makeup around her eyes shimmered in the light, seeming to glitter anew every time Belle caught sight of it. Just staring at how Plumette and Lumiere both danced with such intimacy and love made Belle want to get up and dance again with her prince, but for now, they rested side by side, catching their breaths after so much dancing before.

“They dance well don’t they?”

Belle blinked, looking over at Adam, who was smiling down at her, his arm coming around her waist to hold her close. She melted into his hold, head leaning comfortably on his shoulder.

“How did you know I was looking at Plumette and Lumiere?”

“You can’t miss them, Belle. Who else wears so much gold like Lumiere?”

Adam had a point. Lumiere was resplendent in his favourite gold outwear, his decorated coat with its silver inner lining and huge pockets and sleeve cuffs the most dramatic article of all. The way the back of his coat swished about as he danced with Plumette reminded Belle of how his “coat” had done the same when he had been a candelabra.

The music from the stage came to its bombastic conclusion, Garderobe finishing the last note with as much vibrato as she could muster. Even Lumiere and Plumette stopped to applaud along with the rest of the crowd as the musician couple onstage offered a little bow or curtsey of gratitude in return. From their seats, Belle and Adam stood up as they clapped in appreciation for the musicians’ performance.

No sooner had they begun to sit down again then they found Plumette and Lumiere rushing to their table, sitting down on either side of them. Lumiere reached back to the table behind them to pick up a small bowl of truffles, offering them to the other three as he took a couple in one hand for himself. Belle gladly took one of the small truffles between a thumb and finger with a little “thank you”.

“Good dance?” Belle asked them, glancing from one to the other.

Plumette beamed like the midday sun. “He never tires of dancing with me, do you, Lumiere?”

Lumiere, who had just set the truffles back down on the table behind them turned back round to gaze at his beloved.

“I could dance with you till the last star in the universe burns out, _mon amour_.”

“And you’ll still be dancing even _after_ then,” Adam quipped.

Lumiere grinned at him. “You know it, _mon ami_.”

All four turned their eyes to the stage as Cadenza began to play the first bars of the next song, his wife bestowing a dazzling smile upon the crowd who were either still watching or had started to get ready with their partners for another dance.

“Her voice is so divine,” Plumette sighed, hand over heart, “Just her singing alone could soothe anyone’s sorrows.”

Having finished his truffle, Lumiere stood up again and twirled around so he was now standing in front of Belle, who watched with a small smile as he did a deep bow to her.

“Care to have a dance with me, Miss?” he asked, hand stretched out in his offer.

Belle hesitated, eyes darting over to meet Plumette’s. But Plumette reached out and patted her hand, nodding with encouragement in her eyes.

“Go on, Belle, I promise he won’t drop you or step on your toes.”

“You’re alright with—”

“I’d let him dance with the prince if he asked, my dear. Go, dance with him.”

“Dancing is for everyone, my love,” Adam said, giving Belle a quick little kiss on her cheek, “Friends, family, and lovers alike.”

Belle stretched out her own hand, accepting Lumiere’s offer of a dance. At once, she was pulled to her feet, her hand gripped in Lumiere’s as they went to join the crowd of dancers. Once they found an empty spot to dance, Lumiere gave her another bow as Belle gave him a quick curtsey.

“Ready, Miss?”

Belle couldn’t help but smile on hearing that little inflection Lumiere’s voice did whenever he called her “miss” in his own friendly, affectionate way.

“As ready as you are.”

Before she knew it, Belle found herself swept into the fast little dance, stumbling a little when she went into the first move only for him to go straight to the current step. But her feet and reflexes were quick to recover, taking just a second or two for her to find the correct place in the choreography, Lumiere never faltering even once. His hands were strong on hers as he led her through the dance, Belle already feeling out of breath from the exertion and speed of the piece.

_Was it always this fast? Or have I just never danced this dance to this piece before?_

She had no more time to reflect on the dance and music’s tempo, the room and crowd blurring into a flurry of colours and song and music as she threw herself into the moment. This was certainly not the same as dancing with her prince, which had a certain intimacy and passion that this one didn’t. This, in contrast, had all the pure fun and carefreeness of having a good time with someone one could call a dear friend. Despite her breathlessness, she was still able to answer whatever Lumiere was saying to her above the music and chatter.

“How—are you—not breathless?” Belle gasped out at one point.

“Practice. Lots and lots of practice.”

“How?”

“Dance all night every night and all day every day.”

Belle couldn’t help a little laugh. “I—don’t know if even Adam—”

“He’s got the stamina, Miss. I’ve seen him do it before.”

“Really?”

Lumiere gave her a playful wink. “Challenge him. He’ll say yes.”

“I’m tired just thinking about it!”

“Feel like a dip?”

“What?”

Before Belle could fully prepare herself, Lumiere had spun her around and let her fall into his arm in a dip that nearly reached the floor. One of her hands quickly came up to clutch at his shoulder, hoping he could hold on—she didn’t feel much strength in his arms, not like with Adam’s.

“Don’t drop me—”

Lumiere at once pulled her back upright on her feet, the dance continuing as before. Belle let go of his shoulder, hand over her heart.

“You didn’t drop me.” Belle said in much relief.

“You didn’t trust me not to drop you?” Lumiere pretends great shock. “Miss! I wouldn’t dare dip the prince’s beloved if I thought I couldn’t!”

Before Belle knew it, the music piece reached its final chords, ringing through the room with great drama and magnificence. Lumiere spun her in, then out, doing this one more time before letting go of her hand with a final bow of gratitude to her.

“It was an honour to dance with you, Miss!”

Belle curtseyed to him, a grin brightening her face as she straightens back up again.

“The honour was mine.”

Lumiere offered an arm to Belle, who immediately accepted the gesture, laying a hand on his lower arm.

“Allow me to escort you back to your beloved, if I may?”

“And you back to Plumette,” Belle said, “If I may?”

“You may, Miss. Let us return then to our beloveds who await with great anticipation for our return.”


	12. I haven't performed in SO LONG...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a chess game/lesson, Chip asks Prince Adam about Lumiere, especially when the prince had been a little boy, his mother still alive, long before her death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like despite university examinations looming near on the horizon, my Muses have managed to pop out a story anyway. It won't be every day, however--exams are still looming! But I'll still get the thirty days done!

Adam wasn’t sure whether he should be bemused or amused at how much Chip had been trailing after him the last few months or so. It wasn’t that he minded,  _per se_ , he was just…surprised. Why would Chip trust someone who had been so awful the first few years of his life–he’d ignored the boy, he was just another member of the staff during his pre-curse reign. He’d had no ill will toward the boy, he just had paid no heed to him. And during the curse? Everyone stayed away from him during the curse, more or less, so it really hadn’t mattered how he’d felt about the child either way. Nevertheless, he still remembered the horror he’d had when he first discovered the boy had become a fragile teacup. Of all the things an Enchantress could turn a rambunctious little boy into! 

But now several months–at least half a year, maybe a little more–had passed since the curse was lifted, and already, Chip seemed to have taken a great liking to him despite everything that had happened before. Adam remembered once when Chip had accosted him in the kitchen, blurting out that reading was his favourite hobby now (Chip? Reading quietly for hours in an armchair? Without getting restless?), and he had been both surprised and befuddled. Wasn’t reading his  _least_ favourite thing? (Adults must get so  _bored_ sitting and reading for hours!) 

“Looks like it’s your turn to have a second shadow,  _mon ami!_ ” Lumiere had said that day, clapping a hand on the prince’s shoulder, grinning down at him. 

Adam hadn’t needed to ask to know that Lumiere had been remembering all those times when he was really little–years before his mother’s death–when he’d followed Lumiere around and copied everything he did, right down to his interests. 

Alas, even back then, he couldn’t convert Lumiere to a love of books, and by now he knew he never would, even if he spent the rest of his days trying.

* * *

“How long have you known Lumiere?” 

Adam looked up from the chessboard at Chip’s question. The boy peered eagerly up at the prince from his perch on the other chair with its two cushions so the child could reach more easily. 

“A while–since I was a little boy.” 

Chip, seeing Adam had finished his turn, immediately moved a pawn one more square. He didn’t know it, but Adam was set on letting the boy win; it was only fair for his first ever game of chess (which he had all of a sudden become interested in after having seen the prince and Cogsworth playing it the other night.) 

“When were you last a little boy?” 

“Oh let’s see…about fifteen or so years ago.”

“That’s ages ago!” Chip’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head in amazement. The prince can’t help a laugh at the innocently astonished expression. 

“Yes, yes, Chip, it was a long time ago.” 

“How old were you when you first met him? Was it when he came here to the castle?” 

“I was about four…” Adam stopped, hand hovering one of the chess pieces as he made some quick calculations in his head. “Yes, four sounds about right to me.” 

“Younger than me!”

“Not much younger than you. I remember it was a really stormy night when he arrived at the castle, spinning stories and telling great tales from the very moment he set foot in the castle.” 

“What kinds of stories?” 

“All sorts of stories, Chip.” 

“What were your favourites?” 

“Wait, remember, the bishop can only move diagonally. That’s right, you got it now. Anyway, my favourites? It’s hard to pick just one.” 

“I said favourites in plural. That means more than one!” 

Adam grinned, “So it’s fine with you if I say  _all_ his stories were my favourites?” 

“Sure.” 

“Excellent. Because he told the best stories of anyone, not that I’m biased, of course.” 

“What else?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, what else did he do with you for fun?” 

“He would put on performances,” Adam remembered, “That would cheer me up every time.” 

“Were they just for you?” 

“Oh no, they were for everyone should they care to watch. My mother always loved to watch with me. But…” Adam leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspirational whisper, “Don’t tell him this, but I always used to cover my ears when he sang. Shhh.” 

“I don’t think he sings that bad.” 

“Who sings that bad? Adam!” 

Adam straightened up in his chair, twisting around at the same time to see Lumiere had found them. The prince hadn’t heard anyone coming, probably due to his being so into the game of chess with Chip. The little boy clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide as if in apprehension, but Adam could see the smile slipping out anyway. 

“Nobody,” Adam said at once, and it wasn’t a lie, “I grew out of that, Lumiere.” 

“Ah.” Lumiere folded his arms with a nod, “So you were telling him all about my singing?” 

“I said I grew out of thinking you had terrible singing! Tastes change with age, do they not?” 

“So you’re saying my singing isn’t bad anymore?” 

“Practice made perfect, Lumiere. It’s passable now.” 

“ _Just_ passable?”  

“Lumiere!” Chip piped up as he jumped off the seat, the cushions slipping off onto the floor, “The prince was telling me he knew you since he was four years old! It’s been a long time since he was four.” 

“And a longer time for me, my boy,” Lumiere said as he bent down to give Chip a hug, “I was a few months away from my sixteenth birthday when I came here.” 

“Can you perform something for us soon?” Chip asked as Lumiere straightened back up from the hug.

Lumiere made a face like he was thinking very hard on this request. After a moment of reflection, he gave a dramatic sigh, shoulders sagging, shaking his head in sadness. 

“It has been so long since I’ve performed, I can barely even remember how.” 

“Lumiere! Every  _day_ is an entirely new performance for you!” Adam countered, pretending to take him seriously, “I truly think Shakespeare wrote his “All the world’s a stage” line just for you.”

“Even over a century before I was born?” 

“Believe it.” 

Lumiere grinned, “I’m flattered.”

“And don’t think I didn’t hear the performance you put on for Belle when she first arrived here.” 

Chip gaped around at Adam. “You  _heard_ that? Why didn’t you get angry?” 

Adam bit back a wince at the blunt words. He didn’t blame Chip for it in the slightest–he  _did_ have a hair-trigger temper back then, the boy wasn’t wrong about that.

“I didn’t, and even if I did, I knew Lumiere well enough to know that when he wants to do something, he’ll do it whatever it takes.“

_And laughter died when I entered a room anyway._

Adam quickly shooed away that thought, trying to keep his mood light for the boy’s sake. Fortunately, it was quickly superseded by another, arguably much happier thought, only for that to be muffled by a nudge of doubt. 

“Ah, never mind,” he found himself saying aloud. 

Lumiere looked over at him. “Never mind what?” 

“I was about to suggest you perform that again at dinner tonight, since I…but never mind. It was for Belle anyway. Did you see any of it, Chip?” 

“A little bit!” the boy confirmed, going back to the chair, putting the cushions back on the seat before climbing back up. “It was fun!” 

“Wait, you only saw a little bit of it?” 

“No time like tonight to show you the full performance!” Lumiere declared, “All are invited, but especially you, Chip! You too, Adam.” 

Adam’s hand froze part way through moving his knight. “Wait, me? Why? I heard it–isn’t that enough?” 

“No, and you know full well it isn’t. You  _know_ you wanted to see the whole show, right?” 

Adam set the knight down on its new place, leaning back in his chair as Chip leaned forward to have his turn. 

_He’s not wrong, really._

He remembered Belle telling him all about the performance Lumiere had conducted. He too remembered wishing that he could have seen the full production number–it had sounded so wonderful, so much like the performances he remembered Lumiere putting on during his childhood. 

_He’s right. Of course he’s right._

He would have asked how Lumiere knew he couldn’t resist a performance, but he was quick to remind himself that the man had known him a long time too. Long enough to know full well.

“I’ll be there, Lumiere.” 

“Just as I had thought! No time to waste then, my friends!” Lumiere gave them an extravagent bow, “ _Au revoir_  and see you tonight! I may or may not dance on the table as I had during the performance too. I can’t promise no chandelier swinging either.” 

With that, he turned on his heels, coat swishing about him, and dashed off before the prince had time to think about Lumiere’s parting words. And when it hit him, the prince hoped that it had been in jest about the chandelier acrobatics.

“No chandelier swinging please,” he mumbled. 

“What?” Chip asked. 

“Don’t worry about it. So, is it still your move or is it mine now?”

“Mine.”

 _A performance at dinner tonight._ How  _long has it been since I’ve seen him do that?_

Too long, he knew, it had been far too long. Up until now, he hadn’t realised just how much he had actually missed that dinner entertainment, Lumiere’s own way of brightening up a meal.  It had been his father who had put an end to it not long after his mother’s death, and, while he knew Lumiere’s remark on how long it had been since he has performed he had almost forgotten how was in jest, nevertheless, far too many years had passed without the same entertainment at the dinner table.

_No time like the present to bring back what used to be and undo what my father has wrought on the castle. There shall be music at dinner again, just the way it should always have been._

He could only pray it wouldn’t involve acrobatic antics with the chandeliers.


	13. Some of it's in Greek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle tries to persuade Plumette that Lumiere should try a book or two. Consider this like a sequel to the previous chapter. Also, to make up for a bit for the delays in writing, there are two lines in the movie given to different characters.

So deep was Belle in her pursuit of the next exciting read in the library she didn’t hear Plumette approaching until she spoke. 

“Finding another good book, Belle?” 

Belle looked down from where she stood on the ladder, her hand still hovering above a book she had been about to take down. Far below, Plumette gazed up at her, all smiles and gold glitter, making Belle’s heart flutter for a beat or two. 

“There are many good books here, Plumette,” Belle said, “I can never pick just one. Why, back when Adam was a Beast, I had him carry as many books as possible.” 

“Knowing you, it was a lot.” 

“I managed sixteen at one point.” 

Plumette’s jaw dropped open. “ _Sixteen_?” 

“Before he dropped them all, yes, sixteen.” 

“And you read them  _all_?”

“I think a few of them are still unread in my room, but yes, sixteen.” 

Plumette shook her head, her smile broadening, “You are just the pair aren’t you?” 

Belle pulled a book out of the shelf and climbed back down the ladder with it under her arm, to join Plumette back on the ground. 

“I could say the same for you and Lumiere,” Belle commented as she linked her arm through Plumette’s walking together to the nearest couch. “You like to read a little, and he not at all?” 

“Not at all,” Plumette confirmed as she and Belle made themselves comfortable on the sofa, side by side. 

Belle looked over at Plumette, “Not ever?” 

Plumette tilted her head this way and that, as if in recalling something. “Perhaps when Adam was very little and had begged him to read a story for him before bed. Same as with Chip. Otherwise no.” 

Belle swept a hand at the library around them. “Surely out of the many books here, there’s  _something_ that would interest him? Perhaps a bit of Greek theatre?Some Greek tragedy?” 

“Wouldn’t they all be in Greek?” 

“Not all of them.  _Some_ of it’s in Greek, but surely some have been translated into French too.” 

“I think he’s far more interested in the practical side of theatre than the theory.” 

Belle giggled, wrapping her arms around her found book. “I could tell  _that_ much, Plumette. Are you surehe would not be interested in the French translation of plays from far-flung nations?” 

“You’re determined to convert him into reading aren’t you?” Plumette asked, a gentle laugh escaping her lips as she sank back into the sofa, legs stretched out, one arm coming up to gently wrap around Belle’s shoulders. 

“Has anyone tried getting him to read plays?” 

“Aren’t plays meant to be…played?” 

“They can be read too. I do that all the time with Shakespeare. Surely he has!” 

“Out aloud, with voices, to me.” 

“ _Romeo and Juliet,_ I presume.” 

“Naturally. So there you see, Belle, he  _has_ read a book before!” 

“A play! Not a book with chapters!”

For some reason, Plumette appears to find Belle’s exasperation amusing. 

“He’s read aloud books with chapters to children.” 

“Still not the same. What I’m asking is, has he ever read a book alone, to himself? What does he like? Theatre, yes, we know, but what of poetry? There are  _volumes_ of poetry in here, Plumette.” 

“The only poetry he reads are from his own heart.” 

Belle turned her head as she heard footsteps echoing up the stairs toward where she was sitting with Plumette. She broke out into a warm smile when she saw it was Adam, who immediately made a beeline for them. 

“Come sit with us, Adam,” Belle invited, gesturing to an empty chair, “I was just talking with Plumette about books.” 

“Or, more precisely, a discussion on persuading Lumiere toward a love of books.” Plumette corrected.

“There’s poetry in here! I have seen essays on the theatre of Ancient Greece.” 

“He’s not into the theory,” Adam said with an unrestrained grin, blue eyes sparkling with much humour, “and believe me, Belle, I have tried to convert him to reading before. It’s never gonna happen, ladies.” 

“Belle tells me there are many volumes of poetry in this library. Has he read those?” 

“I don’t think he’d care to.” 

“Have you asked him?” 

Adam shook his head. At this, Belle leaped to her feet with a triumphant expression. 

“Then poetry it is, Adam,” Belle said, not bothering to hide her determination, “Surely that will convince him on the beauty of reading.” 

Before Adam could respond, Belle was off at a quick pace, headed toward another area of the library with a large collection of poetry books. He shared an amused look with Belle. 

“She’s highly determined isn’t she?” Plumette commented, shaking her head with a small smile. 

“Once Belle has an idea in her head, she is unstoppable.”

“As I thought. I can only hope that this will not result in disappointment.” 

Adam grinned, “We’ll just have to wait and see, Plumette, won’t we?” 


	14. Hold Still!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe sliding down icy bannisters isn't such a great idea after all, as Lumiere discovers much to his pain. (And yes, this is a second fic in one day to try and play a bit of catch up as well!)

Perhaps Plumette  _was_ right after all. Perhaps she  _did_ have a point when she’d tried--oh how she had tried--to persuade him that sliding down the bannisters of the steps leading outside while it was  _frosty_ wasn’t the best idea he ever had. One second he was sliding down the ice-covered bannisters, arms outstretched like a ballet dancer, until he hit the raised decorative knob at the end of the handrail, and he missed his landing back on his feet, scrabbling to get a hold before gravity won. Icy stone steps met the back of his head, immediately “bestowing” upon him a glorious meteor shower against the bright blue sky. His foot had given way under him, rolling over with a sharp jab of pain. 

“Lumiere!” Plumette shouted from the top of the steps behind him, “Lumiere, are you hurt?” 

Lumiere groaned--a dramatic one, naturally, like he was on the verge of death. The shooting stars were still fading away into the invisible cosmos beyond that great blue sky. Goosebumps sprang up on his arms as the stiff breeze shot up his blouse’s cotton sleeves. 

“I’m alive,  _mon amour_ , but for how long, alas!” 

His ankle still throbbing, his shoe feeling far too tight around it, Lumiere attempted to sit up, only to slide on his seat down the rest of the stairs--four or five of them, hidden in the snow. 

“Stay there, I’m coming!” Plumette shouted, and, looking behind, Lumiere saw her  _very_ cautiously making her way down the stairs. 

And as he gazed upon her, the brave heroine coming to rescue her knight in distress, then came another pair of familiar voices, laughing and chattering in the crisp winter’s morning air. Lumiere looked over to his right, and there they were in the distance, Belle and Adam, holding hands as they trudged through the ankle-deep snow. 

Speaking of ankles...

Lumiere, pulling himself up by the stone railing, finally got on his feet, only to wince and yelp in pain when he put weight on his twisted ankle, bending down as he lifted his foot back off the ground. 

“ _Merde!”_

His voice must have carried, for not a second later, he heard Belle and Adam shout his name, the sound of feet pounding through the snow in his direction. 

“Lumiere!” 

“Lumiere, what happened?” 

The man looked up with as much of a grin as he could muster, despite the throbbing pain in his foot. 

“Oh nothing,” he claimed, “Just tried to walk down the stairs.”

“Ahem,” Plumette cleared her throat--she was already just a few steps away, “If by  _just trying to walk_ down the stairs, you mean slide down an icy bannister on your  _feet_ onto the steps, then, yes.”

“Plumette!” Lumiere’s lip trembled in a show of hurt, “How could you?” 

Beside Adam, Belle rolled her eyes, clearly not bothering to hide it at all. 

“Miss, I saw that,” the back of his head throbbed, Lumiere wincing as he put a hand to the spot where he’d banged it, “And I’m sure I have another head growing back here. Ouch.” 

“Lumiere, how did you survive to your age thus far?” Adam demanded.

Lumiere shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I have no idea.” 

“Neither do I,” the prince muttered, “I think you need to get back inside and see Mrs Potts.” 

“Ooh,” Lumiere winced again as he tried again to put his weight on his swollen ankle, “I fear I may never walk again.” 

“It’s just a twisted ankle for heaven’s sake, Lumiere,” Belle said, her voice sounding almost as firm as it had that night she’d tended the prince’s wounds--while he was still a Beast--after he’d saved her from the wolves. “It’s not like your leg’s falling off--”

“Don’t encourage him--”

“Oh Belle,  _ma_   _cher mademoiselle,_  what if it _did_?” 

“See?”

Adam grabbed one of Lumiere’s arms and slung it around his shoulders, holding on to him as the latter hobbled down the remaining steps. Belle quickly went to take Plumette’s hands, helping her walk down the last few slippery steps. 

“Thanks, Belle.” 

Plumette appeared at Lumiere’s other side, her arm sliding around his waist, his remaining arm winding around her shoulders. 

“What did I tell you?” 

“Something about not sliding down stairs? I’ve done it before, Plumette, without injury! The very same stairs,  _mon amour_!” 

“You got  _lucky_  that time,” Plumette said, her voice ever so patient, “And these are some of the most dangerous stairs to slide down when frosty!” 

“I’ve done it all the time in the castle!” 

“Castle stairs don’t tend to be frosty if inside.” 

“I’ve done it  _juggling and_ standing upright on the bannisters too!” 

“No you haven’t.” the prince said.

“Adam! You know I have!” 

“Don’t believe him, Belle.” 

“I’ve carried trays of glasses all the way down two stories just sliding down the railing.” 

“Then you broke them all when you hit the end,” Adam reminded him. 

“I...that was  _one time_. Will you not let me forget it?” 

“No.” 

Lumiere sighed dramatically. 

“Oh Plumette,” he turned great sad eyes on her, “I tell them the truth, and they do not believe.” 

Plumette simply raised her eyebrow at him, saying nothing. Beside her, Belle snorted, a corner of her mouth curling up in the smallest of smirks.

_Alas, I believed them my friends..._

_“Et tu,_ Plumette?” 

“What?” 

“Nothing, I said nothing,  _mon amour_.”

Beside him, Adam rolled his eyes.

* * *

 

They finally made it to the kitchen, where, as hoped, Mrs Potts was right there at the table sipping a cup of tea, holding the saucer under it in one hand as she had her drink. At the centre of the table sat a kettle, steam curling out of its spout--clearly it had not been long since it had been boiled. Cuisinier was absent, but he would no doubt be back soon enough to prepare the day’s lunch. Chapeau would come in not long after to help with miscellaneous chores around the kitchen, including the dishes.

“Mrs Potts!” Adam called out as they all reached the foot of the winding stairs. 

She twitched, setting her cup and saucer down, eyes roving up to see them already slowly approaching her. At once, she stood up, ready to make a fuss as she pulled out a chair, waving Lumiere and Adam over. 

“Set him down, there’s a dear,” Mrs Potts urged. 

Lumiere let go of Adam’s shoulder as he sank back in the chair, letting the housekeeper lift his leg on to another chair, setting his ankle down. 

“What on Earth happened?” she asked in a rather resigned-sounding manner. 

Plumette, who had now crept around behind him, her hands gently massaging his shoulders--oh god, that felt  _amazing_ \--began to explain to Mrs Potts as Belle and Adam took other seats around the table. Mrs Potts tutted and tsked as she began to carefully unbuckle Lumiere’s shoe, tugging a little too hard so he involuntarily yelped, jerking his foot back. 

“Hold still, Lumiere.” 

“It hurts,” he sighed, foot twitching in worried apprehension as she held it firmly again in her hands, “It hurts a lot.” 

“Maybe next time you  _don’t_ slide down bannisters.” 

“Walking isn’t as fun.” 

“You’re less likely to twist your ankle walking.” 

Mrs Potts finally managed to pull his shoe off, but not without another gasp of pain from Lumiere, who pulled his foot back again with a jerk. 

“ _Merde!_ That hurt!”

“Well, if you held still it wouldn’t hurt as much!” Mrs Potts chided, before turning to address Belle, “Be a dear, Belle, and fetch cold water and a cloth will you?” 

“Of course, Mrs Potts.” 

“And I should love a shoulder massage too later on, if you don’t mind, Plumette. I could use one.” 

Plumette’s hands moved off Lumiere’s shoulders to curl her arms around the back of his neck, leaning her chin on top of his head. 

All four of them--Belle had already left the table to find cold water and a cloth--let out a collective hiss at seeing how swollen his ankle looked. 

“That’s going to take some time to heal,” Mrs Potts said, “You best rest.” 

“Rest? Impossible! I shall dance and prance none--”

“You will do no such thing. Adam, Plumette, make sure of it.” 

Lumiere looked over at Adam. “Go on, you’d let me dance the hours away with Plumette regardless of my ankle,  _oui_?” 

“I would--” 

“Thank--”

“ _After_ your ankle is back to full health.” 

“The prince has spoken,” Plumette whispered near Lumiere’s ear, “His orders.” 

“But Plumette, he is still a friend!” 

_Surely he’d allow--_

“I am,” Adam concurred, a hand landing on Lumiere’s arm resting on the table, “And friends don’t let friends dance and leap and run around castles on twisted ankles. _”_

Lumiere sighed as though he was in some great tragic play.

“It’s only a twisted ankle, my prince. I have not broken any bones.” 

“A miracle in of itself.” 

“Adam!” 

“It  _is_.” 

Belle finally came back with cloth and cold water, handing it at once to Mrs Potts, not bothering to hold back a wince at the sight of Lumiere’s foot. 

“Ouch, that hurts just looking at it.” 

“More pain than you can imagine, Miss, more pain than  _anyone_  here can imagine!” 

The room went quiet. Belle’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline as she stared pointedly at him then at Adam and back at him again, before diverting her attention to Lumiere’s ankle. Mrs Potts pursed her lips, eyebrows drawing together as she helped Belle with the cloth and water. Even Plumette had drawn back, straightening up behind him, though her arms were still loose around his shoulders. It took Lumiere a couple seconds before he realised what he had just said. 

 _You complete fool!_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Cogsworth’s hissed in his thoughts.

“More pain than anyone here can imagine, Lumiere?” Adam repeated, “I think there’s some here who would protest.” 

Lumiere was certain he’d never quite forget the howls of pain and agony that echoed in the ballroom that night when Adam had been turned into a Beast. Even from where he had stood, he could hear bones snapping and crunching and twisting as man turned into Beast. For a long time after, that sound would haunt him in his nightmares--and who would have thought a candelabra could have nightmares? The idea of his own bones snapping and rearranging and moving around into new shapes inside him? Oh,  _god,_ if  _anything_ could strike the fear of God--or at least of powerful Enchantresses--in him...

Suddenly, his ankle didn’t seem so bad a deal. 

_What fools we mortals be._

“You’re right, Adam,” Lumiere admitted, “Didn’t think before I spoke, huh? That was a terrible night.” 

“You--and you too, Mrs Potts, you didn’t feel anything when you transformed?” 

“Just a little bit, but nothing like what you were going through.” 

Adam cast sceptical eyes on his friend. “Are you just saying that to reassure me or did you really feel just a little bit?” 

“No, really, just a little bit.” 

‘Same,” Mrs Potts added, “We really didn’t feel much at all.” 

“Nor I,” Plumette piped up as well.

Adam seemed to relax a little, but Lumiere could see worry in his eyes when he looked over at him, which only made him feel more guilty. He put his arm around the prince’s shoulders in a gesture of assurance.

“Lord, what a fool this mortal, Lumiere, be, Adam!” he said by way of apology, “Lamenting over the slings and arrows of seemingly outrageous fortune while--”

“Lumiere, it’s  _fine,_ I’m not upset.” 

“You sure?” 

"It’s my fault for getting upset in the first place.” 

“No,” Lumiere disagreed, “It’s mine--I wasn’t thinking when I’d said that. I mean-- _mon dieu_ \--I can say with confidence most of us who’d been there that night had nightmares about it. I know I did.” 

“You did?” 

“You bet I did. And the worst thing that night for any of us?” 

“What?” 

“It was knowing we were helpless to do anything, even to ease your pain at least a little,” Plumette said, hands gently massaging Lumiere’s shoulders again, “To hear someone you love in pain like that--”

“You cared even then?” 

“Of course we did,” Lumiere said, “We always did,  _mon prince_. Even if you’re a  _little_  overdramatic at times--” 

“That’s rich, coming from you--”

“and have a  _tadge_ \--as Mrs Potts would say--of a hair-trigger temper--”

“A  _tadge--”_ Belle muttered as she finished up his ankle. 

“Belle!” Adam protested, but the tiniest of wry smiles pulled at the corner of his mouth. 

“and put us all under a curse, only to lift it again when he  _finally_ met our beautiful Miss, we still love you,” Plumette finished for Lumiere. “And we’ll never leave you--not until our whole lives are done.”

Everyone seemed to relax again after this, the atmosphere becoming lighter once more. Lumiere let go of Adam’s shoulders, his arm resting back on the table, fingers drumming out a little beat as Mrs Potts and Belle finally stood up to sit at the table, relaxing in the warmth of the kitchen. Lumiere wiggled the toes of his injured foot, as if to test just how sore it really was. 

“So, Mrs Potts, you  _sure_ I shouldn’t be dancing on this ankle yet?” 

“ _No.”_

“Ah.” 

 _I’ll be dancing with Plumette before long again, you’ll see. Not all the twisted ankles in the world will conquer my desire to dance in_ mon amour’s  _arms once more._


	15. I Have No Tastebuds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick little drabble-format where everyone at the castle gets a cold and Belle keeps Chip entertained with books when he ends up bedridden with the bug.

Another cold, it seemed, was spreading through the castle, trailing sniffles and sneezes and coughs in its wake. Cogsworth found this stuffed nose business a bother, Lumiere lamented up and down about how  _awful_ his cough (which wasn’t even that bad) was, Adam sniffled and suppressed sneezes (which ended up either rather explosive or very quiet), and Mrs Potts fussed among them all. But she naturally fussed about Chip most of all when he finally fell sick with the cold too. She’d had him bundled up in bed at once with a pile of books (with Belle’s help naturally) and had him drink more sweet tea than you could shake a teapot at. 

One day, Belle was reading to him another one of the books, Chip very quiet and still as he listened to her read aloud the adventures and antics of the characters in the tale. She paused every now and again to remind Chip to take another sip of his water or sweet tea. If he did a particularly big sneeze, one of her hands wandered out to the side table, grabbing a cloth and handing it to him, all without stumbling or stopping her reading. 

“Why don’t you do more voices?” Chip asked at some point. 

“I can’t do voices well,” Belle said, “But I can try if you’d like.” 

“Yes please!” 

And so she did, her modulations skipping from one character to another, interjecting the dialogue with her own interpretations of their accents and mannerisms. Though she thought her voices were awful, Chip seemed to be highly entertained by this, nevertheless. So Belle kept going with the story, until he either fell asleep or the tale reached its conclusion. She had almost reached the end when a knock interrupted the story. 

“Belle?” Mrs Potts’ voice called from the other side, “Would you be a love and open the door for me?” 

Belle closed the book and replaced it on the bedside table and stood up to go open the door for Mrs Potts, who was carrying a tray of steaming hot soup. 

“I was bringing up lunch for my boy,” Mrs Potts said, nodding down at the tray. 

Belle turned back to Chip, “You hungry?” 

The boy shrugged, “A little bit.” 

“Well, it will still do you good to have a little bit of food in you, Chip,” Mrs Potts said, Belle stepping aside as the housekeeper made a beeline for her son’s bed, sitting down next to him as he sat up properly against the pillows to have his lunch. Belle shut the door and went over to open one of the windows a little more to let in just a bit more cool, healthy air. Belle leaned on her hands on the windowsill, closing her eyes as the wind brushed over her face with the touch of winter’s presence. 

“Here you go,” she heard Mrs Potts say to Chip, “Go on, take a few spoonfuls. It’ll do you some good to have food in you. There’s a good lad!” 

Belle turns from the window, leaning back as she watches Chip taking a cautious first few spoonfuls of the soup at his mother’s encouragement. 

“How is it?” Mrs Potts asked him. 

Chp grinned at his mother. “I have no tastebuds, but I can tell this is exquisite!” 

Both Mrs Potts and Belle no sooner caught each other’s eyes then they chuckled with good humour. Belle returns to his bedside, sitting down on his other side across from his mother. She gives his hair a playful little ruffle.

“Oh Chip, you are a one, as your mother would say, aren’t you?” 


	16. Another Petal Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beast has sunk into despair, and lost all hope, for who could ever love a Beast with no soul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From day 16 (i.e. starting today) on out, I’m gonna try experimenting wildly with AUs and other writing styles and whatnot. Here’s to a sort of poetry-like style except it’s not poetry really. I keep wanting to say epistolary, but it’s definitely not that. Anyway. Now go forth and read. LOTS of angst up ahead.

Ten hours for him slip by, unnoticed, as easily as one. 

Here the Beast slumps by the wilting rose, nights blending into days. 

The servants laugh, merry, beyond his prison of a room.

It wasn’t a prison, it was safety for him, for the Beast. 

At least here, he could be forgotten,  _die_ forgotten. He deserved to be forgotten. 

The servants didn’t care really–they would be happy if he left this mortal coil. 

Would they celebrate? Laugh in the halls? Dance in each other’s arms? 

Adam was dead to them. He was dead to him. 

They hated him. They wanted him dead, surely. If he jumped off a tower, they wouldn’t mind. 

No. He tries to move away from that awful thought. No, they would. They’d mind.

_They_ would _mind,_ some part of his mind reminds him, insistent,  _They would turn inanimate when the last petal falls._

And it would be his fault.

He couldn’t let go, not while they were counting on him to save them from their fate. 

He once was the master of his fate. 

Now? He was less than even a beggar to Fate, helpless in the grasp of the curse’s reign.

He was nothing.

The Beast moves now, shifting a little, hunched, wrapped in rags that crumble into dust with just a breath. 

His personality has long crumbled with his clothes–

When did he have a personality? When was he  _Adam_? 

Perhaps Adam really had died, faded away forever with his mother at her last breath. 

Faded into a shadow of himself. 

Then the shadow faded into nothing, as inanimate and lifeless as any of the treasures littering his palace. 

He ambles now to the slashed portrait hanging in his room, sitting down as he stares up at it. 

His father’s face torn–he had taken a pleasure in this.

His own face torn–who was he anymore? It didn’t matter. 

His mother’s face–unblemished, untouched. She had been beautiful inside and out. 

A knock at his door–a metallic hollow ringing against thick wood. 

He wants to tell them to go away. 

Can’t they see he is gone? His soul has faded forever–the soul he once had, when he still had his mother. 

“Who is it?” he demands, though his heart is not in it. 

“Lumiere,” comes the reply, “Might I come in for a bit?” 

The beast shrugs–and his eyes return to stare up at the painting. 

The door meanders far enough, a gap wide enough that only a golden candelabra could wriggle through. 

The shadow of a full grown man collapses over the neglected, dusty floor, flickering in the low light. 

A full grown man with candles for hands, his own shadow dwarfs his true size.

The Beast sees this. He looks away, he can’t look long at that terrible shadow. 

It is the ghost of Lumiere’s old human form, and he wishes again they’d stayed human. 

At least then they could run away from the castle, leave him to die alone, as he deserved. 

Now Lumiere, the candelabra himself, with his tall lanky shadow, joins him, candles flickering without dying on three candle wicks.

“That painting is in dire need of refurbishment.” 

“What do you need?” the Beast asks, wondering why he even came in here at all. 

“I thought you might like a little company, that’s all.” 

The beast heaves a shrug, “I’m used to being alone.” 

Lumiere does not say a word to this, instead looking up at the picture looming over them. 

“You left your mother’s face untouched.” 

“I miss her.” The words are out before he can stop them. 

And he feels his throat close, his heart clench. 

Even so many years later, grief is fresh as the day she died. 

“We all do,” Lumiere says, “We loved her too.” 

The castle rumbles, and the Beast stiffens, becomes still as he hears another portion of the castle crumbling. 

_And we will crumble away with time._

“Another petal fell,” he whispers as the crumbling ceases. “I can’t do this. It’s hopeless, Lumiere.” 

“It’s not hopeless! We still have a few petals left!” 

But the Beast shakes his great head. 

“It will not be in time.” 

“It’ll turn out alright in the end, you’ll see,” Lumiere assures, ever the eternal optimist. “We’ll have a soul to serve after so long.” 

_A soul._

_A soul to wait upon._

“You need a soul to fall in love,” the Beast says, “Mine left with her last breath.” 

Lumiere doesn’t need to ask, he knows who he means. 

“I think you have more of a soul than you think, master.” 

The Beast laughs, hollow, broken. “Just look at me! Do I look like I have a soul?” 

“More than you think you do, Master. You just need the right person to come along, see you as you really are.” 

“No one will love a Beast.”

“You never know, it will happen. Don’t give up on us now.” 

_How can he still be so_ optimistic? 

“Have you tried being pessimistic for once?” the Beast doesn’t care how bitter he sounds. 

“How can I be, when my beloved Plumette lives in this world?” 

“Why did the Enchantress attack you at all? At least if you were still human, you could run from here forever.” 

“You think we’d leave you?” 

“In a heartbeat.”

“It would take more than a heartbeat. We would stay, you know we would.” 

“Stop trying to make me feel better. You all wish I was dead.” 

“Master!” Lumiere sounds sincerely shocked, and the candelabra clamours on to the desk under the picture, turning to face what once had been a human prince. “I for one don’t want you dead!”

The Beast’s eyes drift back up the painting, staring into the cold eyes of his father. 

“He would.” 

The candelabra looks at him, confused, then turns around as he follows the Beast’s gaze. 

One arm stretches out, the candle pointing up at the image of the Beast’s father.

“ _He’s_  the one who had no soul.” Lumiere twists back around so he faces the Beast again, walking up to the edge of the table, looking right into the eyes of the Beast. He tilts his head this way and that, as if in thought. 

“What is it?” the Beast asks, weary. 

“You still have your human eyes, you know.” 

“And?” 

Lumiere smiles, “Eyes are the windows to the soul.”

“If I have one.” 

“Believe me, Master, you do. And the right girl will come along and see it. Trust me.” 

_Trust me._

_Trust me, a Beast, with no hope? No girl in her right mind would trust a Beast. And she would be right not to._

In the belljar resting on its lonely table, the rose glowing stark against the dark, another petal falls.  


	17. This Castle is Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On her post-graduate archaeology internship, Belle writes an email to the person (and friend) who sent her on the internship project in France. Modern day, archaeologist!Belle, my crack at epistolary writing.

Dear Mrs Porter,

Oh dear. I don’t know what you imagined would happen when you sent me on my internship here to this “abandoned castle” in, as you termed it, the “hidden heart of France”. Oh Jane, the things I saw—you wouldn’t believe. You truly knew what you were doing when you sent me on my “adventure in the great wide somewhere”, but I don’t know if you knew even the half of it.

This castle is _alive_.

I am fully serious here, just check my attachments. I have photographic proof (they’re all attached to this email) of the enchanted objects. I can hardly call them artefacts at this point. I am ashamed to admit that I threw a stool at what I had believed an artefact when it talked to me. Please do not end my Master’s degree archaeological internship because I knocked about what I believed had been an artefact. It wasn’t. It was a walking, talking candelabra, of all things!

No, no, I know you probably won’t believe this, but this is why I have photographs. And a little movie clip too (high resolution, so you’ll understand it’s not just a trick of the light.) There are no puppet strings, no AA batteries, not anything that is blatantly 21st century. They are, for all intents and purposes, artefacts clearly from the mid-1700s France. Artefacts are not—at least from what I remember in my undergrad studies—supposed to move, talk to you, and sing as they present you with dinner (and keep being dramatic about how long it’s been since they served a soul.) They are supposed to stay where they are, inert, just as they had been for so many years before we discovered them in the light of day again.

Listen, I cannot keep calling them “objects” at this point. A mantle clock, a feather duster, a wardrobe (with the most divine voice, I might add), a hat stand, and a teapot and teacup set that can all move of their own will. They all speak of some enchantment or curse on the castle (I made the mistake of trying to touch an enchanted rose.) Listen, Jane, it sounds highly impossible until you see the evidence for yourself. Magic is at work in this castle. You know I would never lie about this; you can come over and see for yourself. You are literally swimming distance away in England studying the Star Carr site; it won’t be too much trouble for you. I think once you see my photos, which I took discretely lest I alarmed the enchanted…I don’t even know what to call them), you will be over here very quickly to see the fuss.

Watch the videos, look at the photos. I am not making this up.

 

Your intern,

 

Belle Laurent

 

* * *

 

Dear Miss Laurent,

I have seen the photos and the video and had to watch and look at them again and again just to see if it was real. Oh! I really have sent you on _quite_ the adventure haven’t I? This castle is, as you say, very much alive. I have read before in journal papers of enchanted castles especially in Germany, but never did I imagine I’d send (by accident!) one of my own interns to one! Goodness me, I really have struck gold with you.

I am, as you say, studying the site of Star Carr, but it can wait for me for a few days or so. Barring some apocalyptic event like a comet from the skies striking my beloved Mesolithic site, it won’t be going anywhere. I simply _must_ come and see what you have found. And listen, I don’t doubt you—I have seen my share of curiosities during my anthropological career. I confess some disappointment in you hitting an artefact (who turned out not to be one anyway, but next time, Belle, no hitting archaeological remains!), but I promise I won’t be ending your internship. On the contrary, madam, I think this is going to be the most exciting intern adventure I’ve had if what you say about the castle is all true!

Expect to see me in a couple weeks.

 

Yours in astonishment,

 

Jane Porter


	18. A Diva Needs Their Beauty Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of 100-word drabbles on Prince Adam’s morning of his fifth birthday. There are fourteen drabbles in all. Consider them like vignettes in a way.

A boy prince wakes up at five, all of five years old. He counts on his fingers, amazed now he can count his age using _all_ the digits on one hand! He wants to go wake his mama, tell her it’s his birthday today, but he daren’t, for his father would wake up too and be angry. He knows, however, the kitchen would be awake, or at least Cuisiner would be its only soul there, cooking up the day’s breakfast, a few hours away. The boy can’t go back to sleep, excitement singing through his body down to his toes.

* * *

 

The boy tiptoes all the way to the kitchen, tiptoeing down the stairs as softly as possible. He peeps around the room; the kitchen is lit by only a few candles, Cuisinier hard at work with breakfast preparations.

“You’re early, Lumiere,” the cook rumbles, “Unless you’re not him. Mrs Potts? Is that you?”

The cook pauses his work, spins around, and his eyes widen in surprise on seeing Prince Adam.

“Adam! You’re up earlier than the birds!”

“I’m five today.”

“ _Ah._ ” The cook points at him with a knowing smile. “Too excited to go back to sleep?”

“Much too excited!”

* * *

 

Cuisiner has a sense of good humour—he allows the boy to enter— _mind the oven, it’s hot!_ —allows Adam to plop down at the staff table. He feels the boy’s eyes watching him as he returns his attention back to his work.

“Five! Years! Old!” the cook marvels, emphasising each word with a dramatic thunk of his knife on the chopping board. “Time went _fast_.”

“Really? It felt like being four took forever! I already feel ten!”

Cuisiner’s laugh echoes. “You want to be ten already, is that it? I swear, you’ll be ten before this year’s through, boy!”

* * *

 

When Lumiere enters, he is amused to see the boy already up. He isn’t surprised—he remembers being a little boy once, too excited on waking up knowing it was his birthday. He’s certain Adam feels just the same. He pulls out a chair at the table, flops back in it, lanky legs stretched out before him.

“All of five today!” he marvels, “Soon you’ll be a man!”

He encourages the boy to go back to bed—he needs his sleep, or he’ll be too tired for the day’s adventures.

“What kind of adventures?”

“Fun adventures! All I can say!”

* * *

 

He goes back to bed, and he still cannot sleep. Lying on his back, Adam hears the first peeps of the dawn chorus, and, elsewhere in the castle, a fiddle plays—long, soft, lullaby-like notes. He closes his eyes, letting himself drift off to the melodies. It is only when he feels his mother gently shaking his shoulder to wake him, his eyes opening to the sun rising in the east, does he know he had drifted back to sleep again. His mother plants a kiss on his forehead. He reaches his arms up for a snuggle.

“Happy birthday, Adam.”

* * *

 

His mother allows him to dine with his friends among the staff, a thing he knows his father would _never_ approve. His cold eyes say as much, but he says nothing, and Adam holds tight to his mama’s hand as they descend to the kitchen where his birthday breakfast awaits. Mrs Potts stands at the bottom of the staircase, ready to sweep him into a big warm hug.

“Happy birthday, my boy,” she gives him a kiss on the cheek, “Come join us too, good Princess.”

“You know I could never say no—of course I shall join you all.”

* * *

 

Lumiere can never say no to an occasion to perform. This morning is no different. As the boy watches, he digs deep into his coat pockets and brandishes five juggling balls, pulling them out one by one with great shows of astonishment. Both royalty and servants are his audience, watching as one as he juggles and twirls and performs before he finishes with a flourish. Cuisiner tells him he’s lucky he didn’t throw any into the breakfast he’d carefully set out, Cogsworth mutters about “showing off” but he beams nevertheless, and Adam is overcome with the delight of it all.

* * *

 

He already has more than he could ask for, but still the castle presents him gifts anyway (but not his father. Never his father.) But the best present he could ask for was when his mother brought him outside to show him her beloved rose garden out of the way, private, with a bench for some soul to rest away from the castle.

“I love it,” the boy’s voice is hushed with awe as he stares at the blooming white roses, “It’s really pretty.”

“This is the one place your father cannot touch. If you need to come here, do.”

* * *

 

Plumette holds on to his hand as they go look for Lumiere elsewhere in the castle.

“We have a mystery for you,” she says, “Some books seem to have gone and disappeared! All five of them! We were going to give them to you, but they ran away right before our eyes!”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” a new voice confirms; Lumiere has found them. “Just went scampering off, like that.” He clicks his fingers to emphasise his words. “So we need to find them. It’s like hide and seek, but with books.”

And, together, the trio of detectives explore the castle.

* * *

 

By an ornate mantle clock, they find a book on history; by a three-pronged candelabra they find a leather-bound play by Shakespeare; resting next to a fireplace they find a book with bird illustrations throughout; a fourth on music—all sheet music—is discovered near a harpsichord; and the final one, a book that is more of an atlas, is discovered by a chessboard. It is abundantly clear to the boy that the staff all had a hand in choosing the books.

“We found them all,” Lumiere sounds supremely astonished, “They won’t be running off again anytime soon! Naughty books.”

* * *

 

Desserts, he has plenty of desserts in the morning, with icing and decorations fit for a prince’s sweet tooth. Mrs Potts pours him a cup of tea to go with the puddings—a dessert is never fully satisfying without a bit of tea to go with it. Chapeau, busy as he is, finds time to sit down with him and have a dessert too. How is his morning going? Did he like the book with the music? Perhaps this afternoon, I shall perform some for you.

Naturally, the answer to the question of a musical performance is a resounding “yes!”

* * *

 

Staff and royalty (his father doesn’t attend—music is all cacophony to his ears) alike relax to listen to Chapeau’s performance on his violin. Chapeau plays for the boy prince, it is true, but he plays for all nonetheless. His bow and fingers fly over the strings, he sways with the melodies’ paths, and he smiles as he performs. As he plays, it is as though his audience holds their breath, not daring to breathe, lest they interrupt the flawless performance with a misplaced exhalation. Chapeau could play for hours, just him and his beloved violin brightening lives with music.

* * *

 

Lumiere entertains—of course he does, for it runs in his blood, through every vein of his being. Plumette joins him, adds more voices and a second character. The play is so very romantic, so very much like a fairy tale. He dances with Plumette behind the curtain, the shadow of love falls and twirls upon the fabric. Of course it is a happily ever after, with singing (for once, Adam doesn’t clap his hands over his ears) and dance and magic. There is always magic when Lumiere is around, there is always laughter, song, and surprises that always astonish.

* * *

 

All this excitement and performance! It is so very wearying for even a healthy boy like Prince Adam! He needs to have a little nap, reclining back on a lush sofa with soft cushions under his head.

“Tired already, _mon prince_?”

“It’s nearly lunchtime,” the prince says, “I need to rest for lunch.”

Lumiere flings himself into another chair, slumps down in it, crossing his legs over each other.

“So do I,” he declares, closing his eyes, “It has been a big morning, and the rest of the day awaits.”

“What—”

“Shhh, Adam, a diva needs his beauty rest.”


	19. You Have to Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a late night of partying, Cadenza awakes to a headache and Garderobe gone.

Cadenza wasn’t sure what woke him up first: the loud snoring ( _his_ snoring) or the migraine. With a groan, he opened his eyes to find himself slumped over his harpsichord, cheek planted against the keys. The glass tipped on its side on top of the harpsichord still dripped remaining drops of wine, staining the music with red. Straightening up, he squinted through his eyelids, the light unbearably bright–was it already high noon?–and groaned as another crushing bolt of pain thundered through his skull. 

“Gardebrobe?” he moaned, “ _Amore_?” 

He looked around to see the room already empty–he supposed either she had gone to bed or was otherwise elsewhere in the castle. He didn’t remember when he had fallen asleep here at the harpsichord, nor when his  _amore_ had left, but he knew he needed a long nap to take away this headache. 

The Maestro’s hands clapped down on the harpsichord keys– _FORTISSIMO!_ –and he pushed back the stool as he tried to get up on his feet, leaning heavily on the instrument. 

_I can do this, I’ve done this before many times!_

What  _was_  with the French wine? Was it just him or was it way stronger than Italian wine? 

No matter. Time to go find his  _amore_. 

He managed to make it up a couple flights of stairs in what he hoped was the right direction (it was) before his legs betrayed him by giving way so he collapsed, sitting, on the top step. 

“Need a hand?” 

Cadenza winced as the new voice caused his migraine to flare up again. Turning around so he could see who it was, he saw Lumiere looking down at him, stretching a hand out in an offer of help. 

“Where’s my  _amore_?”

“She’s still sleeping,” 

“What time is it?” 

“Past ten in the morning.” 

“What!” 

“You look like you could use some rest, Maestro.” 

Cadenza tried to smile in gratitude up at him, still squinting in the painful morning light. He accepted Lumiere’s proferred hand, and waiting for him to help him to his feet. 

“You have to help me, you have to stand.” Lumiere tugged on his hand, “I have the arm strength of a stick insect.” 

With that, Lumiere offered his other hand, Cadenza grabbing it, grateful for the maitre’d’s help. He leaned heavily against Lumiere, arm wrapped around him as the latter supported him as they headed toward the bedroom where Garderobe was still sleeping. The halls seemed to shimmer and roll and rock until he thought he would pass out from the dizziness of seeing the world moving more than it ought to. 

“And we’re here!” Lumiere declared, Cadenza blinking up to find that, yes, they had arrived at the guest room. “Let me open it for you.” 

With that, Lumiere turned the knob, opening the door onto a dark bedroom, the curtains having been drawn over all the windows. His heart leaped when he heard Garderobe’s familiar snoring–and was that the tiniest of sneezes?–in the bed. His body ached to slide under the sheets and wrap himself around Garderobe, falling asleep to the melodies of her perfumes and beauty. 

“Will you need anything?” Lumiere asked at the door as Cadenza wavered on unsteady feet toward the bed. 

“S _ignore,_ you have helped me well,” Cadenza said, “Now to sleep like a baby in my  _amore’s_ arms.” 

Not a minute later, Cadenza fell into a deep sleep, arms and legs entwined around Garderobe’s, her scent and warmth sending him back into a blissful, dreamless slumber. 

 

 


	20. Then It's Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth, seeing the boy prince Adam reading his book again, decides to gift it to the child right there and then. Series of haikus.

Small child, giant book

Tugged out of shelf, tumbling down,

History sprouts wings, flies.

* * *

 Open the cover

Title in ornate writing

Fine calligraphy.

* * *

A name in small print

Tucked away in a corner

Small letters: “Cogsworth”.

* * *

Tiny arms but strong,

Huffing and puffing, hugging

The book to his heart.

* * *

He holds the thick tome

Eyes upon the burning hearth

Quiet warmth awaits.

* * *

By the fire, sits

The boy with his favoured book

A smile lights his eyes.

* * *

Cane taps polished wood

Precise as a metronome

Cogsworth’s careful pace.

* * *

Slipping into warmth,

Seating himself in a chair

The fire crackles.

* * *

He rarely smiles

Yet the sight of boy and book

Melts his gruff old heart.

* * *

He knows the book well,

History and geography

Two loves dear to him.

* * *

“It’s a gorgeous book.”

The prince reveres all knowledge

Printed in the tome.

* * *

The old man smiles.

“Well, if you like it so much,

Then it’s yours, my prince.”

* * *

Astonished blue eyes

In surprise, blink up at him

With a shy “thank you.″


	21. The Greatest Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short drabble-length kidfic with young Prince Adam enjoying blowing dandelion seeds on some warm autumn day.

Adam had found a whole bunch of dandelions, clutching them in his fat fists, plopping down beside Plumette–who was sitting up next to Lumiere, who was lying back in the grass–when his hands were full. Seeds blew off with the breeze, fluff sticking to his face, the boy blinking and brushing away seedlings, sending them on their way. Above him, the sky was resplendent in blue, with cumulus clouds looming on the far horizon. A few leaves, gold and red from autumn’s touch, twirled and danced under the sun. 

“Look at all the dandelions I hunted,” the prince brandished the dandelions at Plumette and Lumiere, giving a few to each of them. “I found them myself.”

“You’re the greatest hunter in the world! Dandelions don’t stand a chance against you!” Lumiere declared from where he lay next to Plumette, his bare toes wriggling in the tall grass. His shoes and socks had been cast off and forgotten elsewhere long ago.

“Thanks, Lumiere,” Adam hands him an extra dandelion for the compliment, “I think I got a few.” 

“Demolished an entire pride,” Lumiere sounds suitably awed, “You saved us all from the fearsome dandelion pride that stalked the castle gardens.” 

Adam giggles, now holding aloft a dandelion, blowing as hard as he can until the seeds fly away, cartwheeling and spinning into the air. He watches the seeds spinning against bright blue. 

“Where do they go, Plumette? Do you know?” 

“On an adventure.” 

“Where?” 

“Where do you think?” 

“Around the world? To the stars?” 

“There you go,” Plumette wraps an arm around him in a hug; he snuggles into her. “An adventure in some great, wide somewhere.” 

He discards the seedless dandelion, tossing it away before holding up a new one, its head fuzzy with seeds yet to be carried away on a child’s breath. 

“Enjoy your adventures wherever you go,” he tells the seeds, before taking a deep breath and exhaling as hard as he can. 

As the seeds fly high into the sky, Lumiere waves up at them, his hand waving from above tall grass. 

“ _Bon voyage!”_ Lumiere calls up to them. 

Grinning, Plumette and Adam too wave up at the seedlings sailing to some unknown destination in the great, wide somewhere. 

 

 


	22. Bring Back the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I cheated a little here and decided to just start using lines in songs too, to make life easier. Anyway, here’s the first ever attempt of mine at a ghost story, and in BatB no less. It’s over 3000 words, so that should make up a bit for any delays. And the ending is deliberately left hanging/ambiguous to let the reader decide on what happens next.

It is four in the morning and Cogsworth cannot sleep, having awoken from a rather nice dream to see it still very dark. He tosses and turns in his sheets desperately trying to get back to sleep, to drift off one way or another. He needs to get up before the dawn, and his sleep is very important.

Cogsworth tries, oh he tries, and he eventually just has to give up when sleep will not come. He pushes the blankets off himself as he reaches out with another hand, finds the pocketwatch on his side table, gleaming in the moonlight, checks the time.

 _So much for a night’s rest,_ he thinks, _Maybe a read will do me well._

And so, with a lit candlestick in hand and a coat wrapped around his shoulders, he tiptoes out into the servants’ common area, so quiet at this time of morning. His candle light falls over the room, washing everything in an amber glow. The fireplace has dwindled down to a few faint orange coals. He sees what looks like someone crouched in a chair, but he knows it’s just cushions stacked up so. Come the dawn, he’d see a whole pile of ordinary cushions dumped on the one chair. He can see a couple doors ajar—Plumette’s and Lumiere’s—and he’s pretty certain they’re off elsewhere in the castle in an intimate embrace in some secret corner of their own.

The candle wavers in his hand, with his movement, as he ambles over to a bookcase—the servants had their own little sections on their bookcase. There was Chapeau’s area, his own area, Mrs Potts’, and even Lumiere and Plumette had their own (although all together, their collection came to a total of three.)

He runs his fingers over the dusty spines and the embossed writing, thumb tracing over the words as he trails his hand over his beloved tomes. History and geography and the like, all his favourite topics. What should he read to let him drift to sleep? Would the lone candle flame be enough light to see by? His eyes were not as they used to be.

_Perhaps a walk will do me well instead._

Pulling his old coat tighter around his shoulders, the candlestick in one hand, he carefully makes his way out of the common area, taking care not to make a noise as he leaves. He is on the opposite side of the castle from the Master’s quarters, and surely he sleeps, but Cogsworth tries to muffle his footsteps nevertheless.

 _It’s the boy we’re worried about,_ he remembers, _and his father even more so._

They had to leave him be, least they lose their jobs at the castle. If they so much as looked over at him, the father would know. He’d just _know_ , as if he were omniscient. He wasn’t, but still safe not to do anything at all. Not even to pop their head into the boy’s room and check on his fever, for he had been laid low with one the last few days.

_He’ll pull through, he always does, he’s strong of health._

Cogsworth stops short in the middle of the hallway, candle flame guttering, hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He shivers, and he looks over at the wall to check if a window is open. But this is a corridor with no windows to the outside world. Instead, it is lit by candles burning low, spilling weak, wildly flickering pools of light over walls and floor. He hears a _drip_ of candle wax against the floor, the candle itself coughing out one more sputter and it is dead. His own candle still lives, even as wax is already trailing down like thick tears.

He looks around, he sees nothing out of the ordinary, except the one candle now gone out, wispy smoke still trailing up to the ceiling. He trains his eyes on it, the smoke nearly hypnotic in the way it snakes up to the dark ceiling.

Thinking nothing of it, he pulls his coat tighter, buttons up a bit more, lest he shiver again. His shadow pools and swirls and stretches around his feet as he strolls down the corridors, hoping a little walk would help him find slumber.

The early hours of morning makes Cogsworth’s steps echo, reverberate as though another pair of feet copied his pace. When he stops under a patch of shivering candlelight, his footsteps continue to echo behind him, like the past whispering the path he had trod in this small hour of night. He tugs his coat tighter around his shoulders, and hears another candle gasp in a sudden cold snap of air. Another candle blown out, grey smoke trailing into the dark.  And when he turns around, he finds he is not alone. For, much to his surprise, there stands the boy prince himself, still clad in his nightclothes.

“Good morning, Prince Adam,” Cogsworth greets him, “Shouldn’t you be in bed, resting?”

Blue eyes with pinprick pupils fix themselves on Cogsworth.

“I am.”

“You’re sleepwalking?”

“No.”

“But you’re not in bed, Prince Adam.”

The boy is stock still, at the edge of the candlelight, in between pools of amber. “I’m in bed.”

Cogsworth sighs—he has no time for this. He resists the urge to step forward and grab the boy’s hand, to take him back to his room, where he _ought_ to be resting from his fever. He, ordinarily, would have, but the boy had become so cold toward them he knew this would not be accepted.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to your room.”

The boy doesn’t move an inch. “I’m there.”

 “It’s four in the morning, I have no time for this.”

“Don’t take me back.”

Is Cogsworth’s hearing going or does he hear a hitch of fear in the boy’s voice? But the boy’s expression remains as neutral as ever, his mouth barely twitching, unblinking eyes still not wavering from Cogsworth’s.

“I don’t want to come back.”

Cogsworth opens his mouth automatically to correct his grammar, but quickly thinks better of it.

“You don’t want to be tired in the morning—rest is very important.”

“Then why are _you_ up?”

Cogsworth shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I can’t either.”

Someone must have left a door open behind him, with all its windows flung wide open. Was it always this cold in the hallways? Maybe it was the time of night that did it. He wishes he had brought his thicker coat with him on his wanderings. Even with his admittedly _very_ warm, woollen grey coat on, it feels like winter still digs into his bones, even in the mid-autumn.

“I can walk you to your room if—”

“I have no desire to come back.”

Cogsworth can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something about his words that unsettles him. He hates things that unsettle him, suggest the world is in some disorder. He wants order, he wants nice, neat, parcelled answers and concise explanations.

“Don’t take me back.”

The older man stares back at the boy, taking in his stiff posture, arms at sides, his eyes unblinking, and he wonders in the back of his mind if he ought to have had a shadow. Cogsworth’s shadow is flung over the wall next to him by the candlelight on the opposite wall, but the boy’s is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Cogsworth is just imagining things, thinking the boy without a shadow—that was preposterous, the very idea of it threatened disorder in his world.

“I want to go,” the boy’s voice drops to a whisper, “Somewhere warm again.”

Cogsworth frowns at this. “Has no one tended the fireplace in your room?”

“No one.”

Cogsworth remembers the still-burning coals in the servants’ common room.

“Not even a burning coal?”

“Not one.”

He shivers again. Really, what fool had let the cold come creeping in here? He made a mental note to track down whoever it was in the morning, once he had a proper rest.

Besides, he could use a fire too.

“Hmph,” Cogsworth vigorously rubs his hands together, starts marching past the boy, gesturing for him to follow. “There’s a little warmth left in the servants’ common area. Ordinarily I wouldn’t allow it—”

“I want to see it again.”

Cogsworth stops in his tracks, turns around, stares at the boy in head-scratching befuddlement.

“But why? It’s just a little common area. Nothing of any importance.”

“Take me there, but not _there._ ”

“Not your room.” Cogsworth swings back to face the direction of the servants’ quarters. “Follow me, but keep it quiet.”

* * *

 

The servants’ sitting area is as eerily quiet as before, Lumiere’s and Plumette’s doors still standing ajar. His single candle splutters in the chill, but stays lit. Cogsworth waves his hand out at the couches.

“Take a seat. There’s blankets behind that sofa. It’s cold.”

“I’m not cold.”

Cogsworth stares, rubbing his arms vigorously, feeling goosebumps scratching against the fabric of his nightclothes.

“You’re _not cold_? I’m frozen!”

Shaking his head, the man shuffles over to reignite the fire, only to find the coals black and cold.

“Looks like the cold’s snuffed out the last coal,” Cogsworth remarks, “So much for that.”

He turns around again, expecting to find the boy wrapped in blankets on the couch. Instead, Adam is at the bookcase, perusing the available tomes on its shelves.

“Good idea,” Cogsworth approves, going over behind a sofa to grab a blanket, “Books can help you fall asleep.”

The boy doesn’t acknowledge Cogsworth, as if he never heard him, or just chose to ignore him. With how aloof he had been to the servants for at least the last couple years, the man wasn’t surprised in the least.

“Well, if you need a candle,” Cogsworth raises his candle up a little, “You can have mine. I’ll go back to my warm bed and you read what you like until you’re ready to sleep.”

But before he can amble off, blanket in arms, Plumette and Lumiere’s voices drift down the hallway into the open door. Cogsworth bites back a sigh—they would wake everyone in the castle with all that laughing and declarations of love. He glances at Adam—he still peruses the bookcase, as though he never noticed anything happening behind him.

“Keep it down!” Cogsworth tells the couple as they come sailing in, “You’ll wake everyone!”

The couple stops short, stumbling to a halt in the doorway, their laughter and smiles cut short. Their eyes stare from Cogsworth, to the bookcase, then back to the elder again. Plumette’s hand loosens on Lumiere’s, while the latter stands stock still, his face becoming several shades paler.

“What’s wrong now?” Cogsworth demands, “And where _were_ you?”

It’s Plumette who manages to speak after several seconds of silence.

“We were checking on the prince a minute ago. We just wanted to see if he was still alright.”

Cogsworth, despite himself, can’t help but feel warmed by Plumette’s concern for the prince even if he had grown cold toward them. It wasn’t that they’d stopped _caring_ about him; they just had to pretend they didn’t, for the sake of their careers.

“And?”

“He was _asleep,_ Cogsworth, and here he is, still, in the same moment!”

“Perhaps you had check ten minutes ago? Five?”

“No, we came straight here,” Plumette insists, still looking shaken, “How can he be here too?”

“I—I don’t know,” Cogsworth admits, and stares back at the prince, and realises for the first time he can see books through him.

“ _Sacre bleu,_ it’s _freezing_ in here.”

Then it clicks. It clicks so hard in Cogsworth’s brain that the man lets his blanket fall back to the floor, the same hand now gripping the back of the sofa. His candle flutters with his movement.

“It can’t be. I’ve never believed in such nonsense.”

His missing shadow. His pinprick pupils despite the darkness. His wide, unblinking eyes like glass. His stiff posture. His strange grammar when he had told him “he didn’t want to go back”. The absolute frigidity of the room and the hall.

Cogsworth swallows, hard. He has never seen Lumiere look so pale before, his hand white as he clutches on to Plumette’s for his life. Plumette, in contrast, looks, while shocked, a good bit calmer than her beloved. Much as Lumiere annoys him, often on an hour to hour basis, Cogsworth is concerned for the man’s state.

“Plumette, get Lumiere to a sofa for God’s sake, before he passes out on us.”

“Cogsworth, I _never_ pass out.” Lumiere protests, but it is weak, uncommitted.

 “Just get to a sofa,” Cogsworth turns now to the prince—the _ghost_ of the prince—and sees he has turned around to watch in silence as they all took seats on one sofa, Lumiere in between himself and Plumette.  “You’re not real, are you?”

The prince turns, sharp, to them. “I’m not coming back again.”

“What?” Lumiere and Plumette say at the same time.

“I want to go see her.”

Cogsworth leans over to murmur to Lumiere and Plumette a quick commentary.

“He has told me as such before.”

“Before?” Lumiere echoes. His eyes will not stray from the prince.

“I met him in the hall a few minutes before.”

“And yet we’d seen him in his bed—“ Plumette gasps, a hand flies to her mouth, slowly turning her head to stare at Lumiere. “Oh, Lumiere, what if—”

“ _No._ No, it can’t be—”

“So _now_ you would mourn my passing.”

“What?” Plumette’s voice shakes, she clings on tighter to Lumiere’s arm, “What do you mean?”

The ghost’s hands tighten into fists. Is it Cogsworth’s imagination, or does the cold suddenly seem less frigid now?

“You stopped caring.”

“Never!”

“Never? You abandoned me.” He doesn’t sound so much angry to Cogsworth as…deeply and bitterly disappointed.

“We didn’t—” Plumette begins, but is interrupted again.

“You did.”

Cogsworth clears his throat, “We—we didn’t want to risk our careers at the castle—”

“So I’m less important than a servant’s job.”

“No!” Cogsworth can feel Lumiere’s and Plumette’s eyes on him as he tries to scramble for a better way to put it. “Don’t be preposterous—you are important.”

“But not enough.”

“It’s…complicated.”

“It’s not.”

“Your father—” Lumiere begins, but is interrupted.

“The castle is a huge place. He isn’t all-knowing.”

“We had to follow rules.” Cogsworth explains.

Plumette sighs, shrugs helplessly. “What else could we have done?”

“A smile. A word. A note passed on surreptitiously. I thought love was stronger than fear. That’s what mother always said.”

“We’re just servants.” Plumette whispers.

“I know better now. Fear is stronger than love.”

Lumiere looks alarmed at this. “No, prince, it isn’t.”

“Then why did you abandon me to my father if not out of love?”

Cogsworth can feel it again in his head, that same explanation, _our careers are at stake. We need a living._ He cannot, will not, bring himself to say it again. He tries to scramble for another explanation, something that would convince the prince—he doesn’t want him to _die_ —and his brain refuses to come up with anything else.

“I’d trusted in you. Mother had trusted you.”

“You can still trust us to be here,” Plumette says, “We’re not leaving the castle.”

“The castle. But you had no compunctions about leaving me to my father’s will.”

“We most certainly did not,” Cogsworth protests, starting to stand up, but Lumiere pulls him back down, “We were against your father from the start.”

“How do I know this?”

“We—we did not agree to his method of…discipline.” Cogsworth hates, hates, _hates_ the sound of a hand slapping a boy’s face.

“Yet you said nothing to assure me you were still there.”

“We cannot go against a ruler,” Plumette says, “We cannot _make_ him change his ways.”

“I know. And yet no assurance out of his sight or hearing? I heard silence.”

“Silence doesn’t mean we _like_ what he’s doing,” Lumiere says.

“How would I have known? Silence never speaks well.”

“Sometimes it was safer to be silent,” Plumette tries to explain, “Especially in his presence.”

“He had schedules, he was sometimes out of the province, and yet. Silence. Nothing. As if I never existed.”

“He could have known sooner or later.”

“So all it took was my father to take rulership to show your true loyalties.”

“We are loyal out of necess—”

“See!” the ghost points at Cogsworth, “Out of necessity were you loyal to me. And you used my trust!”

“Wait—”

“At least _you_ have the strength to say the truth, Cogsworth—”

“I wasn’t fini—”

“It was _out of necessity_ , you said so yourself!”

“He means to your father, my prince,” Lumiere assuages, “We—”

“I reached out to you when I needed help.”

“Your father ordered us not to—”

“Not to help. You were very willing.”

“We weren’t—”

The ghost offers a harsh laugh, grating. “From day one, you bowed under my father’s commands. Why?”

“We had to.” Cogsworth pleads their case.

“Even out of sight and out of mind?” He turns now to address Lumiere. “You and Plumette bend the rules all the time, and yet have to be caught breaking them.”

“This is different.” Plumette says.

“So it’s different for me?”

“You are the prince.”

“A prince shouldn’t be alone. And yet he is in a castle of people. You see why I cannot return?”

“Cannot return?” Lumiere repeats, “But you must!”

“I want to go where I know I will be loved.”

All the air seems to go out of Lumiere—Cogsworth is sure this is the first time he’s ever seen him so deflated, like a man who just learned of the loss of a dearly beloved family member. He didn’t find it so far-fetched, knowing Lumiere had seen the prince like a younger brother who trailed him everywhere once upon a time. The brother Lumiere had always wished he’d had, for he had only ever had sisters.

“But…my prince, you are loved.”

"We can do better, I’m sure of it,” Plumette adds, eyes and voice pleading, “Undo what’s done, and bring back the light.”

“Suit the action to the word, the word to the action,” the ghost smiles, but it is empty, devoid of any feeling. “Goodnight, sweet prince.”

And, in less than the blink of an eye, the ghost disappears, leaving nothing but an empty room, as though he had never been there at all. The flame on the candle on the table flutters, sputters, and goes out, smoke curling to the moonlight-soaked ceiling.

“No…” Lumiere whispers in the dark.

Cogsworth is about to put a hand on his shoulder, offering some form of consolance, when the man leaps to his feet, surprising himself and Plumette.

“Lumiere?” Cogsworth and Plumette enquire at the same time.

They stare as the man runs out of the door, and both instinctively know where he is headed.

“Should we go after him?” Cogsworth wonders.

Plumette is already heading for the door on fleet feet.

* * *

 

Lumiere doesn’t care how fast he’s going as he runs down the candlelit hallways and servants’ corridors. His lungs cry out for air as he hares toward the west wing, his thoughts scrambling to keep up with the rest of him. He swipes at his eyes with a hand, impatiently, even though he knows it would barely make a difference to how much he can see in the light of candles and the moon outside. He feels like it takes forever to get to the west wing, to find the boy prince, to see if he still lived. At one point, he stops to try and ease deeper breaths into his lungs, and it takes him a second to realise he was in the perfect spot where the moon and a candlelight threw twin shadows of him over the floor. He looks away, trying not to think of how he had always affectionately called the boy his “second shadow” when he’d been four or five or so.

Finally, he reaches the closed door to the west wing, and, with a great effort, he pulls the door open, blinking against the bright candlelight inside, peering around, heart in throat. He looks around for a candle, and grabs the nearest available one before he approaches the prince’s bed. The prince is no longer on his side, but on his back. He can’t tell if he breathes, even as he tiptoes closer to the prince’s bed. When he is close enough, he holds the candle up higher, more forward, so it catches Adam’s features. The candle flutters as Lumiere’s hand tightens upon it on seeing that the prince’s startling blue eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling. The servant forces himself to breathe, to speak.

“My prince?”


	23. You Are Very Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting a little tipsy together one night with the staff and Adam, Belle is dared to show how much strength she really has by seeing who she can lift. 
> 
> (Just a quick little thing written right before my exam this afternoon--nothing like racing against time to see what one can drum out in a little oneshot!)

There is a lot of giggling, laughter, and loud chatter among Belle, Adam, and some of the staff tonight as they help themselves to wine and fine food. No particular reason, just another fun evening in, where they could all just relax and have fun in each other’s company. Even Cogsworth was as merry as the others–or nearly as merry as he could be anyway. Lumiere, his suggestion for a performance on the table top firmly declined by the others, contented himself with playful flirting with anyone he could reach, whether that be Cogsworth (who kept trying to get away), the prince, Belle, or even Mrs Potts (firmly shut down the one and only time he tried.) 

And now, just as Belle was lifting a spoon to her lips to taste her second helping of pudding, Lumiere pulled over a stool and sat down beside her, leaning his elbow on the table, head tilted against his hand, bestowing his most charming grin on her. 

“You’re very beautiful tonight, Miss.” 

Belle consumed her spoonful of pudding. “You’ve already flirted with me tonight, Lumiere.” 

“You mean you’re tired of my charms?” Lumiere’s lower lip wobbled as though he might cry. 

“I’m sure I’m not as beautiful as Plumette.” Belle said with a pointed glance in said maid’s direction.

“Do you want a challenge?” 

Belle nearly choked on her pudding. “ _What_?” 

“Who can you lift?” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Anyone who can throw a good quality stool at someone and break it–”

“You were a candelabra then.” 

“I know–but you must be very strong.” 

“So you’re asking me if I can lift people. And by “people”, you mean full grown men.” 

Lumiere nodded, blue eyes twinkling with his usual mischief, cheeks flushed from the merry wine. 

“Are you asking if I can lift you?” 

“Or the prince.” 

Belle’s eyes study him, then glance away in the prince’s direction. Adam is deep in some animated conversation with Plumette and Mrs Potts. 

“Who’s heavier?” Belle asked Lumiere. 

Lumiere gave a careless shrug of a shoulder. “That’s for you to find out isn’t it?” 

“You’re not going to let it go are you.” 

“You can dip me, and I’ve seen you dip the prince before while dancing.” 

“Well…” Belle put down her spoon, catching Adam’s eye at the same time just as he turned his head to look over at her.  “Adam, does he always make strange challenges to other people after a few glasses?” 

“They get stranger the tipsier he is, so yes, Belle, this is nothing out of the ordinary.” Adam tilts his head, askance. “What is the challenge this time?” 

“Who can I lift easier? You or him.” 

“Well,” Adam raises his hands up in a neutral reaction, but there is a wry grin at the corner of his mouth, “You are very strong. This is a great quality.” 

“Inside, outside, or both?” 

Lumiere’s hand lands very casually on hers, squeezing her fingers. “Both, Miss.” 

Belle subtly moves her hand out from under Lumiere’s, pretending she was going to reach for another helping of dessert, only to find the bowl already empty. Pushing her own little bowl away, she folds her arms, leaning back in the chair. 

“You reckon I’m strong enough to lift you.” 

“Yes.” 

“What if after I lifted you, I threw you up the stairs?” 

“Miss! You wouldn’t!” 

“Don’t count on it, Lumiere,” Adam chimes in; he has moved over to them, obviously wanting in on the conversation. “Annoy her enough, she probably will.” 

“I was ready to chuck _you_ up the stairs the night I brought you back from the wolves,” Belle pokes Adam in his arm, “And if I could lift you–no, _haul you up the stairs_ –as a Beast, then I can most certainly can do it to you as a man.” 

Adam grins, lifting Belle’s hand up to bestow a kiss on her knuckles. 

“Well?” he asks on looking up. 

“Well what?” 

“Are you going to accept the challenge?” 

Belle quirks an eyebrow, slowly looking from Adam to Lumiere. Really, it was no wonder they both got along so well. Seeing they weren’t going to stop goading her into it anytime soon, she scraped back her chair and stood up, rubbing her hands together. Both men looked expectantly up at her with identical grins of triumph on their faces.

_I got this._

Belle stares at Lumiere, a determined challenge in her eyes. 

“You first, Lumiere.”


	24. How Can I Be Strong When You Make Me So Weak?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Adam, recently engaged, experience a little interruption when making out in the hallway during a party. A little NSFW, but nothing beyond just a good makeout sesh. Small drabble length.

Belle moaned as Adam pressed her against the wall, his lips against hers, his hands on her hips. She pressed up against him, eyes closed, letting her hands wander up to his neck, into his hair, mussing it with her fingers. Her breath came in shudders as he gently bit down on her lower lip, tugging at it gently with his teeth, sending shivers up her spine. She turned her head as he grazed his lips along her jaw, peppering kisses up to her earlobe, giving it a teasing tug with his teeth, rewarded with a little gasp from Belle. Encouraged, Adam nibbled his way up her ear, before kissing down her neck. 

“You like that, Belle?” he breathed against her skin, nuzzling the nape of her neck, before he couldn’t resist a little growl against her throat, and the shiver through her body and the little gasp only encourages him to do it again. 

“Adam!” 

He smirked into her neck, feeling the way Belle’s hands lowered themselves over his chest, to wind around his waist, to pull him flush against herself. 

“Want me to do it again?” 

He does it again anyway, and she pokes him in the side. 

“Do it again, my love, and you’ll have to take me right here.” 

He breathes her scent in, brushes his lips up her neck, kissing and tickling the skin behind her ear with his lips and teeth. And once again, he can’t help another little growl, and is rewarded with another little moan, and he knows he’s already getting her excited. He can almost feel her flushing, and he imagines she is already starting to become at least a little aroused.

“I thought you were stronger, Belle,” he whispers, his hot breath against her skin making her shudder and sigh. 

“How can I be strong when you make me so weak?” Belle’s hands drop to his lower back, “Let’s take this to the bedroom where no-one can–”

“Come across you?” 

Adam springs away from Belle, who finds this whole thing hilarious and starts doubling over at his guilty look and reaction. He spots Cogsworth at the open door at the end of the hallway, the party and music bright and noisy beyond. 

“Well–exactly, Cogsworth, where no one–”

“Please tell me you’re not going to be like Lumiere and Plumette, making out anywhere in the castle, just because you have recently become engaged.” 

Adam is about to protest that no, no, there is no way they would be as excessive when Belle gasps out an answer from the midst of her laughter. 

“Yes!” 

He whips around to stare at her, mouth open. 

“Belle!” 

Cogsworth groans in dismay and, shaking his head, returns to the party, shutting the door. 

“Belle, what was that for?” 

Belle smirks, grabs him by the cravat, pulls him down to her, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“Because that’s what lovers do, don’t they?” 

“Did Plumette put you up to it?” 

“Who  _knows_. And, Adam?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why are you not ravishing me with your kisses right now?” 

Adam grins, goes back to her, and allows her arms to wrap again around his waist, pressing him to her, her mouth hot on his. 


	25. Funny Girl That Belle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I found myself whistling at just before six in the morning (occasionally I get a little extra dose of “morning person”-ness) and then started wondering who would be the one out of Belle/Adam and Lumiere/Plumette to start whistling merrily at such an hour. Without irony. Short drabble-length.

It was the whistling that pierced into Adam’s dreams, a cheerful, melodious one that pulled him from sleep into a very bleary waking up. Squinting his eyes, he could see it wasn’t quite dawn yet, though the light was already lightening up. The twilight was a deep blue, casting the room in soft pastel hues. 

“Belle?” he said groggily. 

The whistling stopped. “Adam, you’re awake!” 

Turning over on his back, he looked for his beloved, finding her already gathering clothes to don after a hot bath. Right now, she had stopped to grin cheerily at him, halfway through unfolding a blouse. 

“What time is it?” Adam asked. 

“Not quite six in the morning.” 

Adam raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you whistling at such an hour?” 

“Because I’m happy?” 

“Before six in the morning!” 

“I’m a morning person, unlike you, Adam.” 

“Must you whistle this early?” 

“Creating new melodies as I do.” 

Adam raked his fingers through his hair, planting his hands behind his head. 

“You should have a chat with Lumiere. He’s always whistling melodies at ungodly hours.” 

Belle laughed. “Six in the morning is  _not_ an ungodly hour!” 

“It is if you’re talking about whistling a happy tune.” 

Belle rolled her eyes, before she leaned over the bed to give him a morning kiss. 

“If you’re going to stay there all melody-less and whistle-less, I’m going to go have my bath.” 

With that, she gathered up her things and, with a last cheery grin over her shoulder, she was out the door. Adam stared after her, then slowly shook his head--for all her little quirks, he still loved her. He turned back over on his side, closing his eyes in the hopes of getting back to sleep. 

“Funny girl, that Belle,” he mumbled, but the smile on his lips never faded. 


	26. Those Precious Days

Adam crouches behind a tree, peeking out from behind the trunk as he watches Lumiere trudge through the snow, ammunition in hand, hunting him down. He smothers a mischievous giggle, ducks his head back behind the trunk again, gathering up snow to form into a ball. 

_I’ll get him before he gets me!_

The boy stands up, hands already frozen from the snowball fight, and peeks around the trunk again. Lumiere has his back to him, he’s heading the wrong way, he thinks Adam is behind another tree or behind that bush over there or–

“Ah  _hah!”_

The boy gasps dramatically, ducks back as Lumiere swings around, volleying one of his snowballs in the prince’s direction. Adam can’t help a shout of triumph when it hits the tree trunk and not him. 

“You missed!” Adam exalts, and leaps out from behind the tree trunk, slingshots his snowball at the servant, who immediately bends low. The sphere of snow sails harmlessly over his head, plopping into the snow behind him. Lumiere stands back up, grinning in triumph.

Adam immediately crouches down again, bowing his head as he starts collecting more snow into another snowball. Lumiere does the same, and before Adam can stand up properly, a snowball smacks him in the side of his head. The prince yelps as he is caught off-balance, toppling into the snow. Spitting out cold snow, the boy pushes himself back up. 

“You cheated!” he shouts, kicks snow in the servant’s direction, but he is laughing all the same. Laughing more than he had in the months since his mother’s passing.

Lumiere wags a finger in the prince’s direction, “Never take your eyes off your opponent, Adam!” 

Adam doesn’t take his eyes off him as he gathers more snow into a ball, holding it in one hand, tossing it up and down. Suddenly he cries out, eyes wide, pointing a finger over Lumiere’s shoulder. 

“Look! Over there!” 

Lumiere folds his arms, tilts his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that to fool me,  _mon prince_.” 

With a wicked grin, seeing Lumiere would have no time to react, Adam launches the snowball, and the servant tries to dodge only for it to smack him on the shoulder. 

“Ooooh you got me  _this_ time!” Lumiere brushes the snow off his shoulder, shakes it off his sleeve, “But you can’t catch me!” 

With that, he runs off, the boy in full pursuit, yelling after him with snowball in hand. Lumiere is fast, he runs around a corner, the boy in full pursuit. Adam spots him, and hurls a snowball at the man as the latter crouches to make a snowball. Now it’s  _he_ who is spitting out snow, Adam having got him full in the face while he was distracted. 

“Never take your eyes off your opponent,” the boy echoes Lumiere’s own words, not bothering restraining his triumph.

“You gloat  _now,_ Adam, but not for long!” 

With that, Adam squeals, takes off running, Lumiere in full pursuit, armed with another snowball in hand. Adam stumbles through the snow, his feet completely soaked and frozen, dives around another corner, up another path in the garden, and screeches to a halt, tripping and falling in the snow, before scrambling to get up. A snowball sails over his head, smacks the man in the back of his head. Adam flinches, all prior happiness and laughter gone in a flash, as the man whirls around. The boy quavers as his eyes meets his father’s dark, furious ones. 

“Did you just throw a snowball at me, boy?” 

The boy gulps involuntarily, guilt overcoming him, even though he hadn’t thrown it. Behind him, he can hear Lumiere’s footsteps stumbling to a halt, breathless. 

“Your guilt in your eyes tells me  _yes.”_

“I–”

“Don’t make up excuses, boy! You threw that at me! You are not a little boy anymore, playing in the snow with your beloved servants.” 

“But–” 

The boy’s words are cut off by a smack across his face. 

“No buts! You are a man, not a boy.” the father’s eyes flick away from the boy’s, glares at Lumiere behind him, “You! Why did you let him throw the snowball at me?” 

Adam turns around to look at Lumiere, who has hung back, silent, his eyes barely meeting his. Somehow this stings even more than his father’s slap. 

“He asked me to have a snowball fight with me.” Lumiere offers at last.

“And you said  _yes_?” 

“Adam–”

“ _Prince_ Adam, servant.” 

“Prince Adam desired to go enjoy the snow.” 

The father snorts. “Why would anyone do that?” 

“Fresh air is healthy, Master, no?”

“Hah! That’s soft of you, servant,” the father looks down at Adam, sneering, “Something your mother would say, boy.” Then, without preamble, he bends down, scoops up some snow and pushes it in the boy’s face. Adam splutters, wipes the snow off with a sleeve. Adam stares up at him in shock, up at his father’s unmoving, unremorseful face. 

“Well,” his father says, “Now you know what it feels like to have a snowball thrown at you.” 

_That’s not what it feels like. That hurt._

“It won’t happen again,” the boy assures his father, and now he wonders if he  _is_ at fault. After all, he  _had_ asked Lumiere to play in the snow with him. 

_If I hadn’t asked him, this wouldn’t have happened._

“Be sure it doesn’t happen again, boy,” his father growls, before snapping at Lumiere, “Take him inside, servant.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

But Adam doesn’t wait for Lumiere, who had not spoken up once to defend him. Instead, he runs, hiding his tears, back into the safety of the castle, where for now, he can escape to his room, be as alone in the castle as he had been since his mother had died. He doesn’t slow down as Lumiere shouts after him, for him to wait, to slow down, but Adam doesn’t care anymore. He never came to his defense, allowed his father to sneer at him, to hurt him. 

 _I never needed anyone in my life, anyway!_ Adam throws himself on his bed, not caring for his damp clothes or for his stinging hands and face.  _No one cares anyway. No one._

He turns over onto his back, lets his tears trickle back into his hair, wishing as he did nearly every day, that his mother was still here. Those wonderful days when everything was so happy, so joyous, but of course it never lasted. 

“Days in the past,” he whispers, pretending again to be talking to his mother, “Those precious days couldn’t last, could they?” 

Silence.


	27. When I Enter a Room, Laughter Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle calls Mrs Potts (and in extension the other servants) out on how they had been treating Adam all this time under the curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, the part where Mrs Potts tells Belle how Adam had come to see newborn Chip when he was born, was very much inspired by/based on tinydooms‘ gorgeous fanfic, More Than Kin (it's right here on AO3), which everyone needs to go and read right now.
> 
> And yes, it's two chapters in one day--playing a little catch up while I can.

Belle could think of nothing more cosy than being curled up in a big, soft armchair with a blanket tucked around her legs and a book in her hands. The fireplace had been lit by one of the other servants, swamping the room with glorious warmth. Lulled into a peaceful sense of being, Belle let herself be drawn into the world of her newest read, one the Beast had recommended to her just the previous day. So far, he had yet to offer a recommendation that failed to fascinate and hold her interest from beginning to end. 

Yet even despite this cosy afternoon, something still stuck in the back of her mind, snagged in her thoughts even despite her deep dedication to her current read. It was only from the other afternoon, when she had caught him reading in the private rose garden that had been his mother’s special place. 

_Laughter dies when I enter a room._

How awful, she had thought, still empathising with him all the same--she knew what that felt like, to be all alone in a crowd full of people who liked each other but her. It had her wondering how long that had gone on; from the way he spoke of it, it sounded like he had been used to it most of his life, even before the curse. 

_And they are so kind too._

Surely the servants, as much as she, had seen how much he had changed, shown his true colours, the person he really had been all along. She didn’t doubt Mrs Potts at all that he had once been a sweet, kind boy until his father twisted him up into being so cold after his mother’s passing. Even only days after the wolf battle and the drama that had come thereafter, she remembered how different he seemed when he’d gifted her the library. The way his voice became softer, almost shier--yes, that was it, shier--and how surprised he seemed to be at his own words. He’d even cracked a joke, one of the last things she imagined a creature--no, not a creature, but what else to call him?--such as him to do. 

“Enjoying that book, I see, dear?” 

“Huh?” Belle, jolted out of her part-reading, part-musing, blinked up from her book to see Mrs Potts and Chip had come in on their tea tray. She hadn’t even heard them come in until Mrs Potts had greeted her. “It’s a beautiful book, thank you.” 

“Would you like a cup of tea to go with it?” 

“That would be wonderful!” 

“Alright Chip, hold still, there’s a dear. Careful now.” 

“I can pick him up--”

But Chip had already leaped from the tea tray to the endtable next to the armchair. 

“Hullo Belle!” 

Belle set her book down on her lap, folding a corner over so she didn’t lose her place. 

“Hello again, Chip. Good day?” 

“As good a day as a cup can have.” 

Despite Chip’s perky voice, Belle felt a pang of pity for him nevertheless. To imagine, being a boy full of energy and stuck as a fragile teacup. She picked him up and sipped a bit of the steaming tea. When she finished her sip, she set the cup back down on the endtable, readjusting her posture in the chair as she now addressed Mrs Potts. 

“Have you seen how much your Master has changed?” Belle asked her, thinking again of the Beast. “He’s changed so much.” 

Mrs Potts beamed, as much as a teapot could do. “All thanks to you, dearie.” 

“I absolutely believe you when you say he had once been good and kind before...everything.” 

“He was a good boy,” Mrs Potts said, “You have done well for him.” 

“Did he do anything good for you before? Even despite how he was?” 

Mrs Potts did not hesitate. “Yes, yes, even if he didn’t show it. When I was with Chip, he made sure I was comfortable and everything in his own way.” 

“He did?”

“Mama says he came in to see me the day I was born,” Chip said. 

Mrs Potts nodded, “That’s right, Chip, he did, as I always told you.” She turned back to address Belle again. “And he had very little tolerance for violence toward us--his servants. If anyone tried to hurt us, they were in  _very_ hot water.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, love. If he saw anyone hurt us--or any of the other staff--he would get very angry. If the offender was another member of staff, they were  _very_ fortunate if they were not fired. That was one of the few times where we had hope he was not completely lost to us.” 

Belle wondered momentarily what his reaction would have been to her smacking Lumiere with a stool when they first met. Probably not good.

“Was he ever violent towards you?” 

“Never, my dear,  _never_. He might shout at us but, as they say, his bark is worse than his bite. In this respect, he was very much unlike his father.” 

Belle found herself easily able to believe this.

_Whoever cursed them in this way would surely have given them less fragile forms had they had an idea he would break them._

How very fortunate, then, that the very first of the servants she had met was Lumiere--candelabras, at least, weren’t very easily breakable. She shuddered to imagine if it had been Mrs Potts, let alone Chip. 

A few minutes of silence passed, during which Belle drained the last of the tea, thanking Chip, who hopped back on the teatray beside his mother. 

“You know, Mrs Potts, I was talking with the Beast the other day in his private place.” 

“The white roses.” 

“He mentioned to me something that’s troubled me since he confided in me.” Belle took a deep breath, hoping she wasn’t overstepping any boundaries. “He told me, and I quote, ‘when I enter a room, laughter dies’.” 

Mrs Potts looked at her with a mix of surprise and consternation.

“Whatever did he mean by that?” 

Belle shifted her legs a little under the blanket. “We could hear you laughing and having fun elsewhere while we were talking together under the white roses. I’d said how much you obviously knew how to have a good time, and that’s what he told me.” 

Mrs Potts stayed quiet, letting her continue. 

“And I dare say, in all honesty, that it hurts him very much when that happens, even if you don’t mean it to do so. Has this always happened?” 

“I believe it has been so for a very long time, Miss,” Mrs Potts said, and Belle could hear the regret in her words, “He has never told us otherwise.” 

“I don’t think he has felt like he could approach you for a very long time, even before the curse. No wonder he never told you anything.” 

“I can believe that.” 

“Do you--do you mind if I may suggest something?” 

Mrs Potts looked at her keenly. “Go on, Belle.” 

“Have you thought why he may have entered the room before? And I mean you generally.” 

“I believe it has always been to want something from us, never to join us.”

Belle tilted her head this way and that. “Really? Always?” 

The teapot stayed silent a while, musing on the question. 

“I don’t think it was always because he wanted you to do something for him.” Belle set her book aside on the endtable, leaning her elbow on it. “Had you ever considered he had wanted to see what the fuss was about? I think he’s been lonelier than you think all this time. I feel part of him has always wished he could join in with the fun. I could sense it that afternoon. It was a...longing, you might say. A longing.” She winced, realising she’d begun rambling. “I’m sorry, Mrs Potts, I've been rambling--”

“No, no, dearie, you’re quite right.” Mrs Potts quickly assured. “We have neglected him for too long. I have always thought in the back of my mind we needed to change that. He most certainly has been lonely for far too long.” 

“Then why don’t you? Why don’t you do something to change that, now he’s becoming a better person? You say you care about him, that you did nothing to show him you cared, and I like to think you want to change that. You can change that.” 

Mrs Potts sighed, “You’re quite right again, Miss. But understand, we have been doing this for a  _very_  long time, I believe, to the point we have never noticed how we react when he enters a room, even now. A force of habit, one might call it.” 

“Even though he’s becoming more like the boy you used to know?” 

“He really is isn’t he?” Mrs Potts’ voice became warmer, “The real Ad--prince of a fellow is coming back to us.” 

“Do--do you think next time...” 

“It’s hard to break a habit.” 

“It’s far harder to break a habit when you don’t know you’re doing it. But when you know, then there’s a chance of changing it if it is a bad one. It won’t undo what’s been done overnight, but I think it’ll be a nice start if you were more welcoming if he enters the room when you’re all having an excellent chat or leisuretime, and not immediately killing the laughter and fun.” Belle grimaced inside, hoping she hadn’t sounded too harsh. “My father always told me I never mince words.” 

“And you don’t, my dear,” Mrs Potts sounded very appreciative, “Sometimes direct and blunt honesty from another is exactly what is needed to show the error of another’s ways.” 

“It’s not going to be easy, it’s not--”

“I understand, dear, I’ve enough years behind me to know such a thing will never be easy. Believe me.” 

Belle gave her a little smile, nodding. “I believe you.” 

The teapot gave a little sad sigh. “If I were--if I could, I would give you a hug right now. I can’t tell you how grateful I am you were so honest about this.” 

"I think I can be  _too_ honest. The villagers in Villeneuve don’t like me much for it.”

“Poppet, your honesty is very refreshing. Goodness knows, such honesty has been most desperately needed for a long time. Thank you, Miss.” 

“So you’ll try?” 

The teapot gives her another smile. “With all our hearts, I can promise you that, Belle.”


	28. Candelabra, Please! Enormous Difference!

“You have a diverse array of servants at your behest.”

Adam, deep in his current read, offered up a “Hm?” 

Belle picked up a chair and moved it next to his, sitting down with a little sigh of contentment.

“I said you have a very interesting set of personalities among your servants.” 

The Beast looked up at her with a mix of surprise and curiosity. 

“I do?” 

“Mrs Potts is very motherly, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Adam couldn’t help the warm smile that he could feel crinkling at the corners of his eyes under his fur. 

“I don’t know what I would do without her.” 

“Plumette is elegant and devoted–I feel she has great beauty inside and outside.” Belle sighed in happiness, “Her voice is entrancing to listen to.” 

“It is?” 

“Do you not think so?” 

“I suppose she does,” Adam admitted, now closing his book and setting it aside. 

“Hers is the voice I would have read me to sleep were I a little girl.” 

The Beast turned his head a little too fast at that, his eyes widening as they met hers. She stared back in some surprise at his reaction. A few seconds of silence passed before he shook his head, looking away lest she see the wistfulness that no doubt lit in his eyes now, remembering how Plumette used to read him stories to make him sleepy before his mother carried him up to bed. One would have thought, being an only child, he’d have desired sisters and brothers of his own to play with. But he never had, for Plumette and Lumiere were as close as could be to such. 

“Any other observations?” Adam asked Belle. 

“Lumiere is very…enthusiastic about everything, and curiously pedantic too.” 

_Pedantic? Huh?_

_“_ Why pedantic?” 

“When we first met, I called him a candlestick. His response? Candelabra,  _please. Enormous_ difference!” 

“Lumiere? Pedantic?” Adam tried to hold back a fit of laughter. 

_Pedantic? Not him!_

“Do you not believe me?” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Adam hastened to assure, but Belle didn’t look convinced, “He’s done that to me as well.” 

“Did you tell him no one actually cares?” Belle tilted her head, quirking an eyebrow at him. 

“ _You_  did, didn’t you?” 

“Certainly not, even if I thought it!” 

The Beast snorted, a wry grin pulling at his mouth. “ _Sure_.” 

“No, honestly, I didn’t tell him anything of the sort. Now  _you_ , you I can see doing that.” 

“It might surprise you to learn that no, I have never.” 

“Really?” 

“ _Really_.” 

Silence. Belle looked at him. He rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not  _that_ beastly. And he’s right, you know.” 

“What?” 

“There  _is_ a difference.” 

Belle looked dismayed by this, pretending to sag in great disappointment at his apparent agreeing with the candelabra.

“And here I thought you were agreeing with me!” she lamented. 

“As I told you, I had an expensive education.” 

“And that gives you the right to be so particular about distinctions between candles and candelabras?” 

“Technically… _yes.”_

 _“Well._ Then I shall keep calling candelabras candles and candles candelabras just to annoy you because I can.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“What do you think?”

“Yes. Yes you would.” 

“And why?” 

“Because you’re you, Belle,” Adam blurted out, taken aback by his own words, “I–I mean to say–because that’s who you are?” 

Belle stared at him, eyebrows lilting to her hairline with her surprise. 

“Was that a compliment?” 

Adam panicked, thinking he’d messed up. 

“Sorry, it was meant to be a compliment–I meant–”

Her face broke out into a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you, that’s one of the kindest things I’ve had said about me.”

“You’re welcome.”


	29. It's Hero Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 100-word flash-fic in which Adam makes a fatal move in chess and Lumiere abandons a sinking ship.

Chip eyeballed the chessboard as Adam moved his chess piece. Beside the prince, Lumiere watched closely as Adam made the fatal move. Chip looked up at Adam with a triumphant smile.

“Checkmate.”

“He’s right, my prince,” Lumiere asserted, getting off his chair and scraping it over next to Chip’s.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” Adam demanded.

Lumiere laughed. “He’s winning.”

“So you default over to Chip’s side? That’s cheating!”

“Well, you _are_ losing.”

“I’m not! I have to make the right move—”

“Sorry old friend,” Lumiere shook his head, “It’s hero time.”

Chip grinned up at Adam. “Ouch.”


	30. Days in the Sun Will Come Shining Through

Stars burned bright for the first time in forever in a gloriously cloudless night sky above the castle, as though they too rejoiced in the return of the prince to his human being. Much revelry inside and outside of the castle had gone on for hours, nay, _days_ now, but who could blame the people for rejoicing that they were human again and were reunited with loved ones? Who could blame Plumette and Lumiere for spending quality hours behind a locked door (and unlocked doors)? Who could fault the prince for spending hours with Belle, telling her all that had happened in his life, in the comfort of her arms? Who could blame Mrs Potts for almost never letting Chip out of her sight, bestowing him with cuddles and kisses whenever she could to make up for all that lost time?

No one, not least of all, Prince Adam, could find it in themselves to blame anyone for wanting to rejoice. Yet, despite his own overwhelming relief and happiness at the curse’s undoing, Prince Adam found himself desiring quiet away from the crowds. He couldn’t remember a single time before the curse when he had ever desired such a thing. Once, he desperately longed to be in the centre of attention at festivities and parties, but now he found himself just as—if not more so—content being on the periphery of the crowd.

It was on one of these joyous evenings, bubbling over with song, music, and dance, that the prince quietly slipped away, leaving Belle to chat with much animation to Plumette, with whom she had become instant companions, like they had been friends all their lives. He had to smile internally when he saw just how much they were the best of friends, and a well of happiness for Belle filled him on knowing she finally found the companion she never had the chance to have for most of her life.

On this particular night, the prince wandered down candlelit hallways resonating with song from the ballroom, where Garderobe was giving it her all. Cadenza’s passionate harpsichord melodies lilted and danced and twirled down on the warm, summer air that wafted through the windows of the palace. Without really thinking about it, he began humming along with the melody, letting its romantic notes fill every part of his soul with its beauty. He even found himself dancing along to it, waltzing in tandem with the melody.

After a while of wandering the halls on feather-light feet, Adam stopped before a doorway that opened out onto a quiet balcony of the castle. It had been left ajar; perhaps someone had already gone out on the balcony to catch some quiet and fresh air, maybe even gaze upon the stars stretching from horizon to horizon. Perhaps they stood out there now, hands on the ledge of the balcony, eyes closed as they inhaled the sweet scent of night-time deep into their very soul. And was that a shooting star that just streaked across the sky, so bright that it left behind an impression of itself on Adam’s eyelids?

 _May as well go watch the stars too,_ Adam decided, pushing the door a little more as he stepped outside, _and enjoy some peace and quiet._

The prince strolled out, his shoes tapping against the stone floor as he approached the balcony’s edge. Once he reached the ledge, he leaned forward on it, eyes still gazing upon the dazzling night sky. His elbows dug into the stone still warm from the day’s sunshine. His hands clasped together over the ledge, hanging out in mid-air as he listened to his own thoughts.

_Curious, isn’t this? Curious that I should love the quiet when once upon a time I sneered at the idea._

As he stared up at the twinkling stars coating the sky in glittering magic, he listened again to the loud, clear music in the distance–Cadenza and his wife were still playing into the night for an adoring audience. The prince was sure that the couple could play well into the next dawn if they so desired, fuelled by nothing but their passion for the art of music.

“Care to enlighten me with your thoughts?”

Adam flinched in surprise at the new voice, turning aside to see Lumiere had joined him, a tall glass of champagne in each hand. Right now, he was offering one to the prince, who accepted it with a quiet thank you.

“To happiness, _mon ami_ ,” Lumiere said, raising his glass to clink it with Adam’s.

“It’s been a long time coming,” Adam mused as he turned around to lean his back against the railings, unconsciously mimicking Lumiere’s own cross-legged stance. “Where did you come from?”

“Paris?”

“I didn’t see you on the balcony.”

“I was here all along, my prince! You just didn’t see me, that’s all. Plumette’s still talking with Belle, I take it?”

“Like they’ve been friends all their lives.”

“Ahh, here, let’s have another toast—to friendship.”

Adam couldn’t help a small grin when their glasses clinked, Lumiere taking a long gulp from his own glass, draining it.

“I’m glad for Belle that she’s found such a good friend in Plumette,” Adam said, “I don’t think she’s ever had a best friend in her whole life before she came here to this castle.”

“Poor _cheri_ , but she is happy now, _non_?”

“Happier than she has ever been in her whole life.”

Lumiere raised his glass as though to toast again, then made a show of astonishment when he saw it was empty. He left Adam’s side to quickly grab the bottle from where he’d left it on the ledge farther away before returning, glass already filled. He offered the bottle to Adam, who shook his head as he lifted his own glass, still half-full.

“A toast to our Belle,” Lumiere declared, clinking his glass against Adam’s again. “She has been the light of our lives since she came to the castle. And to think it all started with being clobbered by a stool.”

Adam accidentally inhaled his sip of champagne at the unexpected comment, coughing and wincing as the liquid burned down his throat. Lumiere thumped him on the back until his coughing mostly subsided.

“Let’s not drown our joys in champagne, Adam. Drowning your sorrows is one thing, but joy is another.”

“Context. Now.”

“The stool? Oh, nothing too dramatic—don’t scoff!—except for Belle smacking me with a stool when I first introduced myself to her in the tower. She was lucky you weren’t there.”

Adam didn’t have to try too hard to imagine his outrage had he been there to witness it. He always had a zero tolerance approach to anyone harming his staff— _especially_ those he’d known his whole life long—or anybody else in his household. He might have yelled at his servants, but he would never have laid a finger on them, not like his father would have done.

“Lucky it was you she met, then,” Adam said, “And not someone in a more fragile form.”

A brief silence passed between them, both men trying not to imagine what could have happened had that been the case.

“She must have known,” Adam said, right out of the blue, earning a confused look from Lumiere. “The Enchantress. She must have somehow known I wouldn’t hurt any of you. Why else would she allow some of the household to be transformed into fragile household items?”

“You know…” Lumiere leaned his elbow on the ledge, resting the side of his head against his hand as he studied the prince in some thought. “I think she sensed there was still some goodness in you left.”

Adam scoffed a second time.

“Don’t scoff, my prince,” Lumiere said, “Mrs Potts was discussing this with us the other day, you know. Said she always had faith in you all along, even when we…well. Let’s just say some of us lost all hope.”

“I probably deserved it back then. You all were unhappy.”

“You think so?”

“You were serving a ruler who treated his subjects in an appalling manner. I mistreated my people,” Adam’s voice threatened to crack, and he stopped, trying to take a deep breath, “I should have been overthrown.”

“And you weren’t.”

“Eventually, Lumiere, had the Enchantress not come along that night. You and I know full well.”

Silence again.

“Why didn’t you and the others leave with the guests?” Adam asked after a time, “It was your chance to flee from the castle.”

“We couldn’t just leave you, _mon prince,_ not when you were in so much agony.”

“You could have run while you had the chance.”

“And we didn’t, did we?”

“You wouldn’t have been cursed with me.”

“And you would have been all alone, and what would you have done then?”

“I—” Adam’s voice caught in his throat, staring over at another part of the castle silhouetted against the night. He could see it from here, that tower that he had climbed, the highest point of the castle, that night when the hunter shot him. “I don’t know.”

“You know full well.”

“I do?”

“Adam, how long have I known you?”

“A while.”

“If by _a while_ you mean since you were about five or six, then yes, I’ve known you a while. Long enough to know well what you would have done had you been completely alone.”

Another few moments of quiet passed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, even if shrouded in sobriety.

“I couldn’t have lived with myself had you become inanimate for good,” Adam confessed, “At least you and the others made it. Belle broke the curse in time to prevent you turning inanimate forever.”

The silence that followed, somehow hesitant and sombre, unsettled the prince.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

It wasn’t a question or accusation from the prince, but the words of a friend to another whom they knew all too well. There was something heavy in Lumiere’s silence, an unspoken refutation of the prince’s own assumption they never turned inanimate. A chill crept down his spine, and he opened his mouth but found he couldn’t voice what he wished to ask. Fortunately, he was saved this difficult question when Lumiere confirmed it in a few words.

“We did become inanimate, at least a little while. Fortunately,” Lumiere’s voice lightened again, leaning back toward its more usual tones, “A certain young  _cheri_ was just in time.” 

“Belle…” 

“Belle,” Lumiere agreed, now placing a firm, confident hand on the prince’s shoulder. “As for me, old friend, I am a phoenix. Burn me and I shall return, rising from the ashes.” 

Despite himself, Adam couldn’t help a jovial laugh at Lumiere’s dramatic words.

“And what would I be? The terrible troll under the bridge?”

“The Beast in the enchanted castle,” Lumiere said without missing a beat, “Who awaits romance to save the day, and save the day it did.”

“Not without dying first.”

“Love looked the Grim Reaper dead in the eyes and thus said, you will not defeat me yet. Love then turned on its heel and walked out of Hades back to the land of the living, and _voila!_ Here we stand, triumphant against death.”

“That’s…very dramatic.”

Lumiere laughed, raising his glass, “To our penchant for the dramatic.”

“Really?”

“My glass awaits.”

Adam shook his head in amusement, but clinked his glass with Lumiere’s nevertheless. Lumiere pointed at the prince.

“Your turn to come up with something to toast to next time. It can’t all be on my shoulders.”

“I don’t know what to toast to.”

“Anything. The stars, the music, the sun, anything.”

“We’re going to be here all night just toasting to everything if you had your way.”

“I would never!”

“You’d toast to every individual guest if you could.”

“Excuse me, I _am_ the _maître d’_ of the castle.”

“Point taken.”

“So, what will you toast to?”

Adam considered the question, stopping himself in time from saying an automatic “I don’t know”. Lumiere _was_ right, really—there was so many things he could toast to; there were so many things he was grateful for that deserved a toast. Most certainly, he was grateful, eternally so, for Belle having coming into his life. And he was also grateful for those who had stayed loyal despite everything that had happened, even if he still wondered if he deserved such loyalty.

_What was it about them? What was it that kept them going? What was it about Belle that made me feel…_

That’s what it was. Hope. Hope that maybe things would turn out alright in the end. And it did, it really did. Adam raised his glass, Lumiere’s face breaking out into a grin.

“And? What shall we toast to, _mon prince_?”

“To unfailing hope that days in the sun will come shining through,” Adam declared, “And to the future now full of happy promise.”

“Perfect.”

_Clink!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. We reached the end! And now a confession on this chapter: I admit, I possibly cheated...just a little bit. The initial fic here was from an answer to someone's prompt on my Tumblr, but to be fair it was in mid-June of this year, and the original really needed some refining (the characters were...not as in character as I would have liked them to be.) But my brain had packed its bags (along with my muses) and shipped off for a vacation somewhere in orbit around Saturn. So I decided to be pragmatic (consider it pragmatic cheating) and just use literally my earliest (or one of the first three or four anyway) 2017!BatB fanfic I wrote in June this year.
> 
> I don't think I shall be writing another BatB fic for a while, or at least until my Muses come back from their vacation to the ringed planet. I don't blame them, I've been putting them through the ropes here!


End file.
